


The Xan'per'il Cometh

by Smuttysmutwriter



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Basically a Rom-Com, Cardassian Culture, Fluff, Humor, Might have to change the rating later, Multi, Post-Canon, Religious Cults, Rom is still a communist, Slice of Life, Torturing Miles O'Brien, Vorta - Freeform, Weddings, big divorced dad energy, creepy vorta, he sleeps in a race car bed, im not sure where im going with this, world building
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:34:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 30,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27875425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smuttysmutwriter/pseuds/Smuttysmutwriter
Summary: In which Miles O'Brien gets an offer he literally has no opportunity to refuse.
Relationships: Julian Bashir & Miles O'Brien, Julian Bashir/Elim Garak, Original Character(s)/Original Character(s)
Comments: 72
Kudos: 53





	1. My Best Friend's Cardassian Wedding

“So Miles…what do you say?”

Miles O’Brien blinked at the video screen, his mouth slightly agape.

“Julian…I’m flattered, speechless really…”

“Just say yes. I’ll be so happy.”

He shifted in his seat, “How long do Cardassian weddings go for?”

“About a month.”

“A month?!”

“Oh yes, they rarely stretch past six weeks these days.”

“Six weeks? Hang on now!”

Julian’s hands came together on the screen, imploring, “Oh come on Miles, I know you’ve got long service leave due. You’ve had it due since before the end of the war, and that was five years ago! Besides…I want to see you and I know you’ve been lonely since…”

“Since what?”

“Since Keiko…”

“We’ve discussed this,” Miles crossed his arms, “Keiko hasn’t left me, she didn’t _leave_. We’re just taking a bit of a time apart to figure things out and she lives with her mother and I see Molly and Yoshi every second weekend. It’s very clearly not her leaving me.”

“Oh…yes…that’s very clear,” Julian’s forehead creased with concern, looking askance for a moment before his eyes snapped back to the screen, “You still haven’t answered my question...”

“What was I going to be doing again?”

“You’re going to be my _vatush_.”

“And that’s like your best man, is it?”

Julian shrugged, smiling widely, “Yeah, that’s mostly it.”

“Mostly? What do you mean by ‘mos-“

A beep from the Cardassian side of the vid screen, “Oh, Miles, sorry, this call’s for Garak and its coming priority. I’ll send you through the official invite, plus your transport details,” Julian paused, smiling warmly at his friend and pressing his hand to the screen, “Thank you so much. You can’t know how much this means to me, to both of us. Anyway, got to go! See you in two months!”

“Julian, wait-“

The screen blinked to black, and Miles was left staring at his own dim reflection. Bloody Julian and his bloody Cardassian wedding and his bloody Cardassian boyfriend! He didn’t even like Garak all that much, though he did make Julian very happy and Miles supposed that counted for something…

Still…what did Julian mean by ‘mostly’?


	2. The Martian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jake is moving up in the world and Miles needs a tooth brush

Miles had been on Cardassia for a solid four minutes before he decided he hated it. Really, _really_ hated it.

For one, it was hot. Unbearably hot, with an angry red sun hanging low in the sky, though Miles couldn’t tell whether that meant it was sunrise or sunset, his sense of time was so confused by the last week of nightmarish cross-galaxy travel.

Then there was the dust. According to his PADD and telecasts within the transporter station he had just stepped outside of, he had arrived at the tail end of a dust storm. He noticed a lot of the Cardassians had scarves wrapped around their noses and mouths (a little detail it might have been nice to be warned about before he arrived, _Julian_ ).

Miles blinked his eyes, feeling them already full of grit, not helping his overwhelming exhaustion. He hadn’t travelled by anything other than transporter in so long he’d forgotten how fraught it could be, especially when Starfleet wasn’t organising your itinerary. Cancelled transport ships, two missed connections, his luggage getting lost somewhere just past Betazed. For the final leg from Deep Space 5 to Cardassia Prime, Miles had had to shamelessly namedrop Worf and promise to tweak a warp drive in order to hitchhike with a Klingon transport freighter. _And_ their shower (singular, shower _singular_ ) had been on the fritz!

And now, to top that all off, after he’d followed Julian’s instructions to the letter and been beamed down to the transporter station he was told to, perfectly on time he might add…there wasn’t anyone there to pick him up.

Just fantastic.

“Chief! Chief O’Brien!”

Miles’ eyes went wide as Jake Sisko pushed through the crowd towards him, somehow even taller than he remembered and so much more grown up.

“Jake! Oh my god…” he could barely believe his eyes, pulling him in for a hug, “What are you doing here?!”

Jake grinned broadly, “I’m covering the wedding, for an assignment.”

“Assignment? For college?”

“College? Chief, I graduated over a year ago,” Jake shrugged a worn backpack further up his back, looking around at the station crowd, “No, I’m here for a story.”

Jake, out of college? Was Miles really that out of the loop?

“Ah, still doing work for the Starfleet News Service?”

“I do the inner solar system beat for them, Earth and Luna colonies stuff mostly, it keeps me busy. But for this, I pitched _the Martian_.”

“ _The Martian_? Didn’t they recently do a big piece on shen/chan oppression on Andoria?” Miles vaguely remembered a lot of chatter about that in the hallways at the Academy, “A wedding seems a bit…gossipy for them, doesn’t it?”

Jake chuckled, “It did, at first. But that’s just my starting point, I’m using that to set up a larger piece on the rebuilding of Cardassia, new ways versus old, the demilitarisation process, the transition from the provisional government to elections…”

Miles gave an amused snort, “I bet _the Martian_ ate that right up.”

“You know it! Plus when I told them I had an actual invite to the wedding, the practically threw me on the transport. I just finished two weeks on some former Cardassian colonies the Klingons now administer doing some broader background stuff, can’t wait to get to my hotel.”

That bought Miles’ current situation (exhausted, abandoned, in dire need of a toothbrush) back to the forefront of his mind. Maybe Jake could give him a lift…

“So I guess you’re here for the wedding too?”

Ah perfect. Miles just had to time this right and he could effortlessly slide in an ask for a ride to Julian and Garak’s place without it being too awkward.

“Oh yeah, Julian’s asked me to be his _vatush_.”

“Whoa…” Jake blinked, then gave a respectful nod, “Chief…that’s a big responsibility. I’m impressed.”

Miles made a dismissive noise, “Pff, it’s nothing really. Speech at the wedding, a few embarrassing stories, charm the in-laws…”

(Did Garak have parents? Honestly, Miles found it hard enough to imagine Garak was ever a child…)

Jake was frowning at him, “Is that what you think being a _vatush_ is?”

“What else could it be?”

Jake looked even more concerned, “I mean…I guess it’s mostly that…”

“Mister Sisko! There you are,” a young Cardassian woman appeared behind Jake, unwrapping her scarf from around her face, “I’m Kett, we spoke yesterday. I’m from the Cardassian Associated Press.”

“Kett! Hello! Great to finally meet you in person,” Jake tried to give a standard Cardassian head bow just as Kett stuck her hand out for him shake, resulting in both trying to switch then laughing awkwardly.

“I have a transport waiting for us, if you’ll come this way.”

Then Kett was pulling Jake away through the crowd before Miles could even get the word out about a ride.

“Sorry Chief, I’ll see you later in the week,” Jake yelled back at him, “I think we’re having dinner!”

“Dinner? What?”

But Jake was already out of earshot and Miles was left with more questions swirling around his mind, like the dust in the street. One louder than all the others…

Why did everyone keep saying ‘mostly’?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Re the Martian: I sort of see it as being a bit like the Atlantic or the New Yorker, a higher end publication with a focus on investigative journalism and longer editorial pieces, it's a big opportunity for Jake this early in his career. 
> 
> Also, can you tell I hate international travel? Even the pandemic can't make me look back on it fondly. I've always felt intergalactic travel would be exponentially worse.


	3. The Cardassian Metric System

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a discussion of poetry

_“Where the cactus flower blooms_

_We will meet again, my love,_

_And you will lay_

_Your head upon my lap._

_With only the strangling fruit to witness,_

_As I drink at the river’s edge.”_

Julian gave a content sigh, “I like that one.”

“Of course you would, you strumpet, Turrel the Younger’s work is particularly obscene,” Garak flicked over the pages of a book of Late Hebridian poetry he’d found in a second hand bookstore.

Julian rolled over in bed, propping his head up on one hand, “Dare I ask what exactly was obscene about that poem?”

“You have clearly never seen a strangling fruit, my dear.”

“Maybe you’ll have to show me one.”

Garak looked at Julian askance, “At certain times in Cardassia’s history, talk like that would have gotten you arrested for indecency.”

“Even if it was directed at my future husband?” Julian shifted closer, tucking his head under Garak’s arm to lean on a scaled shoulder.

“Well, that would be considered a grey area.”

Julian chuckled, “You’d better read me another then, before the police arrive. Something just as dirty.”

“Far be it from me to deny you your final wish as a free man.”

Garak made a contemplative noise as he flicked through the pages of the book, Julian falling silent and listening to the rustle of pages and Garak’s breathing. Was it even legal to be this happy? This content and comfortable and loved?

In the summer months, when the sun was at its harshest, Cardassians avoided work at the hottest part of the day, returning home for lunch and something Garak called _t’yet_ (‘A time for reflection and planning, dearest, a moment to centre yourself before re-emerging stronger and ready to face any adversary”).

Julian called it by its Earth name: a nap.

He was thankful for _t’yet_ today, though. His morning had been a rush, a series of last minute problems cropping up just before his leave started. Then there had been a goodbye morning tea with the other nurses and doctors at the Lakat University Hospital. Then a meeting with the hospital administrators because _of course_ there had been a problem with his leave application (someone had filed his leave under ‘funeral’ rather than ‘marital,’ which meant every form had to be re-entered into the system from scratch). He’d barely had a moment to poke his head in on his medical students and wish them luck on their final exams before leaving for home. And he still felt like he’d forgotten something…

For once he’d arrived after Garak, coming home to find him throwing together a quick dish of eggs, plim meat and desert rice which Julian privately called Cardassian kedgeree (or should that be…Cedgeree, heh heh). They had eaten while Garak had given him the latest movement on the upcoming elections (“New Cardassia is polling very well, you’ll be pleased to know…”).

By then the dust storm had been whipping up, delaying Garak’s return to the Detapa Council building, and as the old saying went, there was really only one thing to do during a late summer dust storm.

Now, there was nothing for Julian to do but to laze in bed with the one he loved, naked and satisfied, getting thousand year old love poetry read to him like some ancient odalisque.

“Ah, I think you’ll like this one…” Garak settled on a poem towards the end of the book.

“Is it dirty?”

“Positively filthy! No wonder this collection was banned,” he cleared his throat, “Now:”

_“On the road to Denen’tat_

_I saw you pass._

_And it was there I paused,_

_My eyes caught by the ridge of the mountains,_

_Falling then to the valleys between._

_With the ink-dark moons rising, I realised_

_I still had many miles yet to travel.”_

Garak paused for a moment, letting the words sink in, “Well, what do you think?”

“I think I still like the first one better. At least that one was obviously about oral sex…”

“And this one wasn’t?! I see I’ll have to give you some reading about Denen’tat. It was the sex capital of the old Empire, you know.”

“Oh really?” Julian plucked the old book out of Garak’s hands, swinging one leg over Garak and sitting up to straddle his hips, “Perhaps we should pay it a visit?”

“We could do a day trip out to the ruins, some of the mosaics are in almost pristine condition…” Garak gripped Julian’s hips.

“Ohhh pristine mosaics, I love it when you talk dirty,” Julian leaned down for a kiss. Maybe he could convince Garak to take the rest of the day off, surely there wasn’t that much legislating going on this afternoon?

“How far is it out to these ruins?” he nuzzled into Garak’s neck.

“As the poem says, dear one, there are ‘many miles yet to travel.’”

Julian sat bolt upright.

“What did you just say?”

Garak gave him a curious look, “About Denan’tat? Or about the mosaics?”

“No! The last bit.”

“It’s quite far away?”

Julian’s eyes went wide.

“Oh no! Oh no no noooooooooo.”

He leapt off the bed, leaving Garak quite disappointed, and started pulling on clothes.

“Darling, is everything quite alright?”

“Miles!”

“They are quite confusing, but rest assured dear one, Cardassia has used a metric system for centuries now.”

“No! Not those miles, Miles the person!”

“Oh…oh dear,” Garak pulled a face, watching Julian pull a shirt on backwards, “Was that today?”

“Yes it was today! Oh God, he’s never going to forgive me. Quickly, you run out to the shops, get some ikri buns and Guinness, we have to make it up to him!”

And with that, wearing mismatched socks and only one shoe Julian ran from the room, leaving Garak blinking at the space he had once occupied.

Where, on this whole planet, was he going to find Guinness?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies to Sayat-Nova and Ono no Komachi, whose work I was reading as I wrote the doggeral in this fic. ;) Also Jeff Vandermeer, who gave me the idea for the strangling fruit. 
> 
> And, as an Australian, I will never not take the opportunity to rag on imperial measurements. They're just bad. End of story.


	4. Leave it Miles...it's Vorta Town

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we examine a new religious movement.

“Are you still angry at me?”

Miles pointedly stared out the window of Julian’s small transport as they drove towards the edge of Lakat.

“I said I was sorry. It’s been three days, you can’t spend the whole time you’re here not talking to me.”

The only sound that answered him was the low hum of the temperature regulator.

“I guess I have no choice then,” Julian reached into the bag at his side, “Got to finish off this delicious sticky bun all by myself.”

Miles pursed his lips. Wasn’t going to give in that easy.

“Mmm, delicious sticky ikri bun…warm from the oven. Garak made them fre-esh.”

“I want a fresh ikri bun,” the rather large Cardassian guard sitting in the back seat of the transport poked his head between Miles and Julian’s seats.

“Oh, of course, we packed one special for you Corak. Here you go.”

“Thank you.”

Miles let out a huff, “Why is he here again?”

“Oh, you speak now?” Julian handed the last ikri bun into Miles’ outstretched hand, magnanimous in victory, “And Corak is here because Vorta Town is right on the edge of Lakat, things are still a little rough this far out.”

Miles took a bite of the bun, “I still don’t understand this whole ‘Vorta Town’ thing, what exactly are they doing still here?”

“Well, to be fair they didn’t have much of a choice in the matter. The Cardassians found a bunch of them locked in a shipping container after the Dominion left. It’d been months, half of them were dead.”

“God, that’s awful!”

“It was terrible. They’d been told to stay there, that the Founders would come back for them.”

“There was an offer to send them back…” Corak rumbled from the back seat

“Which they refused,” Julian gave Corak a stern look “And as Cardassia had just ratified the Intergalactic Treaty on the Non-refoulment of Refugees, here they stay.”

“And we’re going out to see them for a social call, are we?” Miles finished the last of his bun, wiping his fingers on one of the tunics he’d borrowed from Garak, his luggage still floating somewhere out there in the infinite blackness of space.

“If you hadn’t been sulking in your room all morning you’d know. The replicator and generator from Ferenginar arrived. Special donation from the Grand Nagus himself,” Julian turned to the controls of the transport, pressing a few buttons, “You’re going to help me install it. Plus, I like to check in on them, they have…unique medical needs…and they’re quite sweet once you get to know them.”

Miles rather doubted that. The transport shuddered slightly, decreasing in speed and turning a corner. Miles looked out his window and saw two Keevans following slightly behind a Kilana as they walked through dilapidated streets, half of the buildings still bombed out shells. Welcome to Vorta Town, kid.

Julian pulled up the transport in what looked like it used to be a town square. Miles’ mouth fell open.

“Is that…is that who I think it is?” he pointed to a statue in the center of the square, the newest, and least destroyed, thing in the area.

“Yep. That’s Odo,” Julian cut the power in the transport, “Corak, can you get the anti-grav unit ready, I’ll open the back doors.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

Miles spluttered. _Oh, that’s Odo_ , he said. Just Odo. Just good ol’ Odo, in three meter tall statue form, surrounded by what looked like…tributes? Miles walked closer. God, he was right, there were tributes…but the kind children would leave: small toys like marbles and spinning tops, flowers pulled from the cracks of the street, smoothed stones in interesting shapes, a collection of uncashed dabo tokens from a local casino…

“Do you like it, Chief O’Brien?”

Miles jumped nearly three feet into the air, making a very undignified noise.

“Oh, I’m so sorry to have surprised you. Please forgive me,” Kilana (the same Kilana Miles had seen earlier on the street? Probably not) bowed her head in apology, giving one of those empty smiles which seemed universal to the Vorta, “Doctor Bashir is always saying I sneak up on people. I’m thinking of getting a little bell to wear. Do you think that would help?”

“C-couldn’t hurt,” Miles tried to will his heart beat back to a more normal rate, taking a few deep breaths.

Kilana continued to smile, her large purple eyes blinking juuuust less than would be comfortable, “Doctor Bashir has been so excited about you coming. He told us all about your visit last time he was here.”

“Doctor Bashir has been so helpful to us,” the doleful face of a Yelgrun appeared over Kilana’s shoulder, “We’re so thankful for his aid. Do you like the statue, Chief O’Brien? You served with Odo on Terok Nor, didn’t you?”

“Y-yes…I suppose I did.”

Kilana stepped forward, taking Miles’ hand, “We would love it if, once you’re done with the replicator of course, you could perhaps stay for a while and tell us a little about your time with Odo. That would be…so wonderful.”

_This is how horror movies start, Miles. Just get back on the transport and lock the doors…_

“Excuse me, where are we setting this up?” Corak yelled from behind the anti-grav unit, obscured by the height of the generator and replicator piled on top of it.

“Oh, do pardon me Mister Corak, if you’ll come this way…” Kilana let go of Miles’ hand, finally breaking disconcerting purple eye contact and bowing slightly before leading Corak away.

Julian joined Miles and the other Vorta, pulling a medkit bag out of the transport and throwing it over his shoulder, “Good to see you, Yelgrun. What’s on the agenda today?”

“Not much since last time, Doctor,” Yelgrun gave a small shrug, “Luaran 12 and Gelnon 45 have a broken arm and foot respectively. Kilana 6 stepped on a piece of wiring and we couldn’t get all of it out. Oh, and this may be nothing but Keevan 326 ate a box of those dishwasher soap capsules, and now he won’t stop foaming at the mouth.”

“Oh dear, not again,” Julian gave a little sigh, “Come on Miles, we don’t have all day.”

Once inside and working on wiring up the generator and replicator, Miles felt a little more at ease. Lovely machines…simple machines…machines wouldn’t hurt him, machines would never drag him halfway across the galaxy and expose him to a creepy Odo cult full of purple aliens. No, that was because what he and machines had was special…

Corak made himself comfortable against the wall across from Miles and was more than happy to fill him in on all the other details of life in Vorta Town. How the conversion to Odo-ism ( _oh good, it has a name_ ) had been a relatively recent event but had sealed the fate for the small colony ever being able to return to the Gamma Quadrant, apparently they were considered heretics by the other Votra.

“When did the statue go up?” Miles asked with a sense of morbid curiosity.

“About six months ago. They’re talking about raising money to do a pilgrimage to Ter-, Deep Space 9, though who knows where they’ll get the money. It’s not like anyone will employ them,” Corak took a sip from a cup of red leaf tea one of the Yelgruns had given him, “But I suppose they don’t have many expenses either. They only seem to eat once or twice a week, Doctor Bashir provides all their medical care, and apparently they do very well at the casinos for everything else, mostly toys and games now the statue is finished.”

“Is he out here often? Julian, I mean…”

Corak shrugged, “Councillor Garak has me bring him out here about once a month, occasionally more often if there’s an emergency or if one of them needs extra care. Apparently their bones break like twigs,” he imitated snapping something in half with his large hands, “but they’re very resistant to disease, never seen one get an infection.”

“Fair play to them,” Miles fit one of the last panels on the replicator and wiped his forehead. God it was hot. Corak handed Miles his own cup of tea. Miles clinked his cup against Corak’s before drinking, which seemed to amuse the Cardassian, a smile tugging at his lips.

“So…Councillor Garak’s your employer, is he?”

“I’m part of the Legislative Security detail, I’ve been assigned to this household for…about two years now.”

“Can’t imagine those two are exactly the standard sort of household you find here on Cardassia…” Miles gestured towards the door, where outside Julian was trying to encourage Keevan 326 to take an emetic and throw up all that dish soap.

Corak dipped his head, contemplatively, “No…but there are worse families I could work for. Doctor Bashir is no trouble, apart from wanting to come out to more dangerous places like this…and the Councillor wrote a letter for my sister last year, recommending her to the University. I didn’t even have to ask him, he just knew.”

“Oh really, what’s she studying?”

“Xenolinguistics, with a focus on Romulan regional dialects.”

“Well, good luck to her,” Miles held his cup out, Corak mirroring the gesture this time and clinking their cups again, very pleased with himself.

All of a sudden a powerful retching noise could be heard from the next room, followed by groans and whining.

“God…is it always like this?” Miles asked, suddenly less thirsty.

Corak chuckled, “Oh, this is nothing. You should have been here the month they discovered sex. That was a memorable one. Very sticky..."

Miles made a face, “But…aren’t they all clones? Do they even have…you know, the parts for it?”

“I honestly don’t know, I suppose they work with whatever they have,” Corak said contemplatively.

“We should all be that lucky I suppose. Now, pass me that screwdriver, I just have to get this on and we’re done.”

Corak did as he was asked and Miles screwed on the dedication plate for the replicator the Ferengi had provided.

It read:

“On this stardate of 3467.02

This replicator is provided to the Vorta of Cardassia Prime

From the everlasting generosity of the Grand Nagus of Ferenginar:

ROM THE REFORMER

_The worker must have bread,_

_But she must have roses too_.”

Corak read over Miles’ shoulder, “What does that last part mean?”

Miles smiled, “I’ll explain it to you in car.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *vorta voice*: Excuse me sir, do you have a moment to discuss our lord and savior, Odo.


	5. Surak's Trap House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the author writes a very lazy chapter and we are all 'friends of the pod.'

TRANSCRIPT: SURAK’S TRAP HOUSE, EP. 125. PT. 1

INT. MUSIC (B R E E N – W A V E) PLAY 30 seconds.

JAKE: Aaaaaand welcome back listeners to the 125th episode of Surak’s Trap House: politics, news and culture for the 24th century. I’m your host Jake Sisko…

NOG: And I’m your other host: Nog, son of Rom. And today listeners, we are broadcasting to you LIVE!

JAKE: Not quite live…

NOG: Close to live from beautiful, romantic…dare I say sensuous…Cardassia Prime.

JAKE: Indeed we are, Nog. And, I’m just gonna say it, love is in the air.

NOG: It really is. Everyone’s talking about the wedding between Councillor Elim Garak, Minister for Interior Affairs of the Second Detapa Council and one Doctor Julian Bashir, ex-Star Fleet Chief Medical Officer of Deep Space 9. But while everyone else is getting caught up in the little stuff, flower arrangements, what vintage of kanar will be served, which member of the couple is going to be naked…

JAKE: To be fair, that’s really only something our Ferengi listeners are asking about…

NOG: And it’s a valid question. But as I was saying, while everyone else is focused on that, we here at Surak’s Trap House are going to take you deeper. Jake, you’ve been covering this for the last few weeks. Give us the lay of the land, politics-wise. There’s elections coming up aren’t there?

JAKE: There are. It’s been three years since the Second Council was appointed and we are fast approaching Cardassia’s first free election since the military takeover and the Dominion occupation. We have two major parties that have emerged, New Cardassia and Hebridian Tradition, as well as several smaller parties which may end up holding the balance of power.

NOG: Ohhh! Spicy.

JAKE: Spicy as a bowl of tube worm soup. The largest of these smaller parties, and the most powerful from everyone I’ve spoken to, is the Widows and Orphans Party, whose leader is none other than Neela Dukat.

NOG: As in _that_ Dukat?

JAKE: Yep, the ex-wife of _that_ Dukat.

NOG: Which brings up the question, is she really a widow if she got divorced before her ex disappeared and is now presumed dead?

JAKE: You know, I’ve asked about that, and let’s just say that Cardassian family law is complicated. Also, even if she isn’t technically a widow, no-one’s dared bring it up to her face.

NOG: Fair enough!

JAKE: Widows and Orphans is the really interesting story here. In less than three years they’ve gone from a single member, single issue party, to being the most powerful minor party in the legislature, with rumours they’re about to enter into a formal coalition agreement with New Cardassia. A move like that almost completely locks Hebridian Tradition out of contention.

NOG: And where does Councillor Garak come into this?

JAKE: Well, Garak is a member of the currently in power New Cardassia party and the Minister for Interior Affairs, one of the larger ministerial portfolios. Doing pretty well for a former exile and the illegitimate son of a housekeeper, and if polling is to be believed, one of the more popular members of New Cardassia.

NOG: Which makes it very strange he’s not standing for re-election. What’s the deal there?

JAKE: Well, under the interim constitution, the appointed members from the interim government have to have a certain amount of turnover. One third of councillors are required to not run for re-election, to give more citizens a chance to run and reduce the risk of entrenching a new regime. It was a surprise that Garak was one of the members who volunteered not to run though.

NOG: Interesting…

JAKE: The official line is he’s retiring to focus more on his family.

NOG: Pfft, That’s always the line.

JAKE: That’s what I said. Rumour has it though that the current Castellan forced the issue, wanted Garak out of the picture to avoid a leadership challenge…and that is where the wedding comes in.

NOG: Oh ho!

JAKE: With a big, attention grabbing, traditional Cardassian wedding, Garak has a public relations coup and gets to dominate the news cycle right up to the election.

NOG: Hah! An almost Romulan level of pettiness! Admirable. Let’s take a break there and hear some words from our sponsors.

JAKE: Yes, after the break, we’ll be continuing our deep dive into your step-mom’s new book, “Life at the Dabo Table: Spinning wheels with power”…

NOG: Entering its twelfth week on the Federation and Klingon Empire best seller lists! Grab a copy today.

JAKE: Then you’ll be telling us about one of the most traumatising events of your childhood.

NOG: Ah yes. Walking in on Doctor Bashir “checking Garak for scoliosis.”

JAKE: He’s doing the air quotes everyone…

NOG: Never were they more needed! We’ll be back soon.

OUTRO MUSIC (B R E E N – W A V E) PLAY 15 seconds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~*~*~B R E E N - W A V E~*~*~


	6. Lakatian Bride Quarterly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a fitting and a fit.

Breakfast in Cardassia was typically served in the bedroom, or maybe that’s just how Julian and Garak liked it. Miles was trying not to extrapolate his experiences in their little townhouse to some broader trend, if he did that he’d have to think that Julian’s hoarder nest of a study was standard for human doctors, and he knew (or rather hoped) that wasn’t true.

Whichever it was, every morning he’d woken up in the high ceilinged bedroom he occupied to a knock on the door and a hot breakfast left for him on a tray outside. Miles had to admit maybe there was something to this whole thing, quietly getting to enjoy his eggs, toasted flat bed and (thankfully) human coffee, take his time to get ready and then prepare himself for whatever this hell planet was going to throw at him today.

Plus, from his vantage point of having the room that looked over the back courtyard, Miles had ringside seats to the best show in town, and from the clatter of the back door downstairs, it was just about to start.

Out she came, with the laundry basket on her hip, Julian and Garak’s maid…or was it housekeeper? Miles wasn’t sure, she didn’t live in the townhouse, and she only came for the mornings (made the breakfast and cooked a few other meals to be reheated, did the laundry every few days, cleaned as needed), but maybe the definitions were different here. Her name was Vikya and she was Player 1.

Before she even got the first pair of socks pegged up on the line, Player 2 rounded the corner of the house. Miles saw Corak pause when he spotted her, running a hand over his hair and straightening his uniform. Good lad, got to make a good first impression.

Then started the ballet of the both of them pointedly ignoring each other whilst being keenly aware of everything the other did.

Corak started ‘a circuit of the perimeter’ (got to keep us all safe out here in the mean streets of Lakat’s North Ward, a district almost entirely populated by politicians, academics from the university, and other well to do professionals). As he rounded the fence he waited until the last possible moment to acknowledge Vikya with an appropriately frosty nod of the head, which she returned with a quick “good day, Mister Corak.”

Oh ho! First point Vikya, if the panicked looked on Corak’s face was anything to go by.

A gentle knock on Miles’ door drew his attention away from Days of our Backyard, Julian’s voice floating though.

“Miles, are you up?”

“Yeah, come on in!”

The door clicked and Julian walked over to join Miles by the window, a light robe over his shoulders and coffee cup in hands.

“Ohh, any movement?”

“She’s made her first move, a hearty good morning and some sustained eye contact.”

“God, how’s Corak going to deal with that?” Julian chucked, tucking one leg under himself as he sat down on the window seat.

“I’m surprised he’s still standing to be honest,” Miles took another mouthful of coffee, “So, what’s on the schedule today? Breen group therapy? Jem’Hadar STD clinic?”

“Oh har har,” Julian helped himself to the last piece of Miles’ toast, “actually, it’s wedding business today. I’ve got a fitting for my wedding robes. Want to come?”

“What kind of _vatush_ would I be if I didn’t? Which reminds me,” Miles stole the toast back, “You still haven’t really explained this whole _vatush_ thing to me.”

“I told you, it’s sort of like being my best man.”

“’Sort of’…’mostly’…I can’t help but feel there’s a bit more to it.”

“Weeeeeeell…”Julian shifted uncomfortably, “There may be…just a bit more.”

“Hah! I bloody well knew it!”

“But can we talk about it this afternoon? It’s…it’s complicated, and I’m not sure I’ll explain it well. I have a friend coming over who’s helping with some wedding…things. He’s much better at explaining it than I am…” Julian looked down into his coffee mug, suddenly fascinated by the riding hounds chasing each other around the inside rim.

Miles decided maybe it wasn’t time to push, “Alright then, we’ll talk later. So, what am _I_ wearing for this grand event?”

“Your dress uniform will be fine, nothing too elaborate.”

“Well, it would have been fine if it was here…”

“Oh, there was a message about your bags, I completely forgot,” Julian got up and walked over to the houses’ computer terminal, pressing a button, “For some reason they contacted us, rather than you.”

“I think I put your address and number on my luggage tags.”

“Ah, that’d explain it,” Julian started reading, “Now…Dear Mr Miles O’Brien, we are pleased to inform you that your luggage has been successfully located on the fourth moon of Andoria.”

“Well, at least that’s one of the nicer moons.”

“We are in the process of rerouting you luggage to its original destination and appreciate your patience in this matter. As a token of our apologies, please enjoy these two coupons for 15 per cent off at any Vai’kea store within the Alpha Quadrant. Terms, conditions and expirations apply. Thank you for flying Federation Commercial, where ‘We Bring the Stars to You!’”

“Ugh, that’s just what I need. More cheap Tellerite furniture!”

“If you don’t want them, I’ll take the coupons. Vai’kea just opened their first store here and they have a whole new stuffed toy series, I want the targ and the wompat so bad!”

Miles grunted, “You can have them then, consider it an early wedding present. Do they sell Starfleet dress uniforms there too?”

“Sadly no. But don’t worry, Nog just got here yesterday. He said he’s going to take care of it.”

“Nog’s here?”

“Of course he is,” Julian started counting off on his fingers, “Quark should be getting in in the next few days, he’s representing the Grand Nagus at the wedding. Kira should be in by then too. Worf will be in next week, he’s bringing the new Klingon Ambassador with him, which is good, it’s about time they appointed a new one.”

“What happened to the last one?”

Julian gave a dismissive wave of his hand, “Oh, the usual, something something Great Houses, something something lost honour. It was political. I hear Martok is cleaning house again. Anyway, we’d better get ready, my tailor hates it when I’m late.”

*~*~*

“So, how do I look?”

“Welll…” Miles tried to stall for time, looking for the right words, “You look…good. Like a big…eggplant.”

The sour-faced Cardassian tailor made an annoyed noise, standing from where he had been kneeling at Julian’s side, adjusting pins, “I hope these ‘eggplants’ are items of great beauty on your home world Mister O’Brien. Ones that require twelve different sets of alterations to the design.”

“It’s more the purple and the green, to be honest,” Miles offered.

“On that note, Doctor Bashir,” the tailor was already back at his work, ignoring Miles as he had been for most of the fitting session, “I do hope your intended is satisfied with these changes, I have been very accommodating with all of his notes but even my patience is starting to wear thin. I’m sure he is aware I have many other clients…”

“And that’s why we came to you, Mister Zimarril, because we know you’re the best! Your work has been featured…

“Seven times! Seven times my designs have been featured on the front cover of Lakatian Bride Quarterly! And _never_ have I had a client make this many changes. Now, hold still, I’m going to take some pictures and send them right now to Councillor Garak, hopefully this will be the final set.”

Mister Zimarril picked up his PADD and starting taking photos, occasionally snapping orders to Julian (‘Arms out! Turn around! No, too far around, come back!’), before leaving in a huff for his office to send the photos on to Garak.

Miles raised his eyebrows, watching after the tailor, “Who spit in his zabu stew?”

“Oh don’t worry about Zimarril. He’s very affable normally, he’s just under a lot of stress. Garak’s been backseat tailoring,” Julian settled himself _very carefully_ on one of the couches in front of the mirrors he’d been modelling in front of, “Do I at least look like a dashing and handsome eggplant?”

“The most handsome eggplant I’ve ever seen.”

Julian picked up a hand mirror which had been left on the side table next the couch and looked at himself, “Hmm, it’s all the green lacy stuff on the neckline isn’t it? That’s what gives it the eggplant-y look.”

“It certainly doesn’t help,” Miles picked up a conveniently placed PADD displaying Lakatian Bride Quarterly, and flicked through the digital pages “But if it’s any consolation, eggplant seems very in this season.”

Hmm, maybe Garak wasn’t the awful tailor Miles had always assumed him to be. Maybe it was just the Cardassian aesthetic that didn’t appeal to the human eye…

“I think it’ll look quite striking once I’m all blued up. Ow!” Julian put the mirror down, moving a touch too fast and flinching as he pricked himself on one of the pins.

“Oh you’ll look great,” Miles kept flicking through the magazine, coming across an ad for one brand of blue makeup ( _Leave your mark…and make it Ocal Blue_ ), “That does beg the question though, how are you going to paint the little spoony-thing…”

“ _Chufa_.”

“Sorry. How are you going to paint your _chufa_ , when you don’t have one? Plus the painting on the ridges seems pretty precise…”

“My friend Maro is coming over this afternoon to help with that.”

“Is that the same one who’s going to explain the _vatush_ business as well?”

“One and the same.”

“Well then, I look forward to meeting him.”

Miles was just about to ask what was on the cards for lunch when an anguished scream came from Zimarril’s office. The door to it slammed open, the tailor looking feral, the ridges on his neck flushed dark grey with rage.

“Take it off! Take it all off immediately!” he stalked over to Julian and started ripping thick swathes of dark purple fabric off his back, green lace going flying.

“WE’RE STARTING FROM SCRATCH!”


	7. Mim-mim soufflé

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which cracks appear and Miles makes a commitment to physical fitness.

Julian and Miles left Mr Zimarril’s shop with the tailor sobbing over a completely new set of designs Garak had helpfully emailed over. They walked through downtown Lakat, finding a Romulan café (one of the few businesses open during _t’yet_ ) and sat down for lunch.

“You know, if you don’t like the eggplant look, you should just wear a suit or something,” Miles twirled some Romulan spaghetti around his splork, using the provided dining scissors to cut the strands, “It’s your wedding too…”

Julian shook his head, mouth full of his own spaghetti, “Nup…godda be tradshonal,” he swallowed, coming up for air, “Besides, I don’t care what I wear to the wedding. I’d marry Garak on a street corner wearing a trashbag if I had to.”

Miles grimaced, looking up from his plate, “I just think…it’s seems like there’s a lot of Cardassia in this wedding and not a lot of Earth.”

“Well, that’s pretty standard for Cardassian weddings.”

“But it’s not just a standard Cardassian wedding, it’s your wedding,” Miles snipped more spaghetti, a little more forcefully this time, “There should be some of you in it too.”

He shoved some more spaghetti into his mouth, angry chewing. Where was he going with this? And why was he so annoyed all of a sudden?

“You could just wear your dress uniform. That’d look nice,” he added.

Maybe Miles was just hungry-angry? He needed to eat more. If more food goes in, less words come out.

“No I couldn’t,” Julian shook his head, slurping up a noodle, “I resigned from Starfleet.”

Miles coughed, almost choking, his half chewed mouthful dropping out onto the plate. A Romulan trader seated at the next table made a little ‘ew’ noise, picked up her bowl and moved further away, still within earshot however (particularly for Romulan ears).

“You did what?”

“I resigned from Starfleet. Over a year ago now,” Julian effected a casual shrug, not looking up from his pasta, “It was overdue really, I’d been on extended unpaid leave ever since the Federation humanitarian mission left, and that was two years ago.”

“Julian…” Miles was flabbergasted, “How…why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I knew you’d take it so well,” Julian sat back in his chair, crossing his arms.

“I’m taking it well! I’m taking this very bloody well, considering you kept this from me for a year! It’s just…it’s just a bit of a shock. Don’t you ever want to serve on a starship, not an escort vessel like the Defiant, but a Constellation or Galaxy class, do an extended mission…”

“And what, end up on the Magellan or the Yamato, spend five to ten years dealing with diplomat’s sniffles and hoping for a first contact to spice things up? Garak going slowly insane as a Starfleet spouse. We both know how well that can work out!”

“Hey, that’s not really fair!”

“And even if I wanted that job, you think that sort of opportunity was coming my way? You know what I am Miles, I hardly think Starfleet is going to be handing out flagship positons to an augment.”

“You don’t know that!” Miles said, knowing deep down Julian was right.

Julian rolled his eyes, “Come on, you’re acting like I’m giving up some bright Starfleet career. We both know that was already gone. Besides, I like my job here at the university hospital.”

The sound of a straw hitting air and making an empty slurping noise broke Miles’ attention away from Julian. He looked over at the Romulan trader with her now empty glass of some milky drink, staring at them unashamedly.

“Do you mind?” Miles asked her.

“No, not at all,” she replied, giving another gratuitous slurp.

Miles rubbed a hand over his face, speaking a little more softly now, “Yeah…well…I just wish you’d told me.”

“I know, I should have. I’m sorry,” Julian pushed the scraps of his food into one corner of his plate, then another, “It was just…I got a letter from Starfleet basically telling me they couldn’t keep giving me leave forever…and that was about the time Keiko moved back to Kumamoto City. It just never seemed like the right time to tell you.”

Ah. Right. Thinking back to that time in his life, Miles conceded that Julian was probably right. There wouldn’t have been a good time to tell him, between the crying and the despair and the _I don’t have her, I don’t deserve hair_ incident.

“You know why we’re fighting?” Julian placed his plate on the edge of the table, as if he could do the same thing with the tension between them, “Because it’s after lunch and we haven’t had _t’yet_.”

Miles gave a snort, “Yeah, that must be it.”

“I’m serious, I’ve gotten so used to it I can’t function without a nap in the afternoon during summer.” Julian gestured out the café’s window to the nearly empty streets, evidence of _t’yet’s_ popularity, “Come on, finish up and I’ll give Corak a call to come pick us up in the car. He’ll do it if I bring him a Romulan bubble tea.”

“Alright, alright. We’d better get a move on anyway if your friend’s coming over.”

“Good point.”

Miles sat back as Julian got up to make the call to Corak and order him a drink to take away. Where had all of that come from? Was Cardassia getting to him? He ate a few last mouthfuls of his pasta, not really feeling hungry anymore. Jake out of college, Julian out of Starfleet. Nog was coming to dinner a little later in the week and Miles half expected him to announce he was being made an admiral. Everything was changing.

Julian finished his phone call and sat back down to wait for the car, looking out the window. To Miles, the space between them, just a café table’s length, seemed suddenly a lot further away.

~*~*~

Prellet Maro appeared a suitable time after _t’yet_ , an antique looking wooden case slung over one arm and a bag of fresh mim-mim fruit from his husband’s garden in his other hand.

“You must take them,” he said handing the mesh bag to Julian as he walked in, “the trees are practically falling over with fruit this season. I’ve made juice, jam, marmalade, pies, I even tried a Rigellian ice cream recipe…mixed reviews for that one…and I cannot bear to look at another one of these awful things.”

“Hello Maro, lovely to see you too,” Julian gave an amused smile, warmly pressing his open palm to Maro’s offered hand.

“Always a pleasure. Ahhhh,” he swept through the living room toward Miles, “This must be the famous Mister O’Brien, the _vatush_ himself! I am so excited to finally meet you, Julian is always telling me of your exploits on Deep Space 9.”

“Only the good ones I hope?” Miles repeated Julian’s gesture, a little nervously, not sure how hard to push back against Maro’s hand. He didn’t want to give the Cardassian equivalent of a weak handshake.

“Of course, of course. Now, Julian, sit over here by the window, I want to get the best light.”

Maro was young, probably not much older than Vikya or Corak, with his standard Cardassian black hair worn longer than Miles was used to seeing on the men here and twisted into two long plaits down his back. His _chufa_ was painted bright blue, as were the length of the ridges on the side of his neck (not just the one or two scales which Miles had seen Cardassian women wearing). His nails were painted the same colour and, although Miles didn’t count himself an expert, he was wearing a tunic that showed off a lot more shoulder than he was used to seeing on Cardassians just walking around on the street.

The young man set up the box he’d bought on a side table next to Julian and pulled open the lid. Miles made himself comfortable in a chair next to Julian’s, peering over to have a look at the kit Maro had brought with him. He was trying to show an interest, be on his best behaviour after his and Julian’s tiff over lunch.

Inside, the case was filled with tiny jars no bigger than a finger filled with liquid blue, in every shade from the palest blue sky to almost midnight black, many of them appearing to Miles’ eyes to be exactly the same shade. This was different from the blue makeup he’d seen advertised in the magazine at Julian’s tailor. Judging from the small implements and larger jars of pigment that were tucked at the side of the case, Maro mixed his own colours for one thing.

“How did things go at Mister Zimarril’s?” he asked, pulling out a selection of colours from across the spectrum and holding a few of them up to Julian’s skin.

“Hrmm…I think we’re back to square one.”

“I knew that would happen, absolutely knew it. The trendy look is not you, dear, you need something classic!” He put the lightest and darkest colours he’d chosen away in the box and started pulling more from the turquoise and cerulean side of the spectrum.

Julian coughed, shifting in his chair, “So Miles, Maro’s going to be in the wedding too.”

“I’m so excited,” Maro flashed bright green eyes at Miles, “It’s been a few years since I’ve sung someone in, but you never forget, and to do it for such a dear friend is wonderful.”

Miles helped himself to a mim-mim fruit from the bag, which looked to him a bit like a leathery little apricot, “Yeah, it’s exciting. So how did you two meet?”

“My husband is a Councillor for New Cardassia as well, Bretan Maro, Minister for Transport, Energy and Displaced Persons.”

“Ah right,” Miles took a bite of the fruit. Hmm…not bad…a little tart but not too bad.

Maro unstoppered a selection of the tiny blue jars and, taking one of the long thin paintbrushes from inside his case and dipping it in, painted a little dot on Julian’s forehead, above one eyebrow, “Julian and I are the only political wives who aren’t…well…wives.”

“The first night I met him, Maro basically saved my life.”

“I told him which fork to use for the salad course at a state dinner, a clear matter of life or death,” Maro wiped off his brush and repeated the dot with a slightly lighter shade of blue, right next to the previous one, then another, and another.

“Maro…tell Miles about the origins of the _vatush_. You tell it so much better than I do.”

Maro smirked, preening at the praise, “Of course I do. My people are natural story tellers. Now Mister O’Brien, the story I’m going to tell you, sadly it actually isn’t that much about the _vatush_ , it’s about the person they helped.”

Miles sat back, taking another mim-mim fruit (they were quite moreish now he’d had one), “Can’t wait to hear it.”

“Now…many, many years ago, when Cardassia still had gods that they feared, a girl was born whose family had sadly been cursed to have everything they wanted taken away from them. Now in some versions of this story, the girl is a boy, in others she’s an older widow, in yet others she’s an exiled prince. Whichever version, she’s there…”

“And she’s cursed?” Miles offered.

“Exactly,” Maro kept painting dots of very slightly different shades of blue, there were over ten now, “Every business her family started failed, every home they lived in was infested by voles, every mim-mim soufflé her mother baked collapsed, the usual sort of curse things. But the girl, or the boy…”

“Or the widow, or the prince?”

“Indeed, whichever one of them it was, was strong and clever and very beautiful, and despite all her troubles she found a man she wanted to marry.”

“Lucky girl!”

“Yes indeed, he’s usually very wealthy in every story,” Maro added as an aside. “The girl wanted to marry him so badly but she knew that the gods would turn her joy to ashes if they knew that she wanted it. So she sat in the sun and she thought for a long time. Then she went to her husband-to-be in secret and told him to prepare for the wedding and to wait for her coming. Now who she went to next tends to vary as well, in some versions it’s her father, in others it’s her sister, and in others it’s her closest friend.”

“That’s you Miles!” Julian offered helpfully.

“Thanks Julian.”

“Whoever she went to, she whispered in their ear so the gods couldn’t hear, and told them her plan. She would trick the gods into thinking she didn’t want to marry, then they wouldn’t try to stop it. So on the day of her wedding, she was dressed and painted as would befit her station…”

At this point Maro waved his paintbrush in the air, a little artistic flourish.

“…but she didn’t laugh, she didn’t smile, and her eyes were full of tears as her dearest friend took her hand and led her from her home.”

“Twice on the journey to her husband’s home she tried to escape from her _vatush’s_ hands, and twice they dragged her back. Her clothes were rent and her face a mess by the time she arrived but her love stood there waiting and so it was they came together to be joined. The Gods were fooled, and they were so impressed by her trickery, or perhaps so ashamed, that the curse on her family was broken from that time on,” Maro added the final blue dot to Julian’s head and sat back on the stool he was seated on, giving Miles an enigmatic smile.

“And they lived happily ever after?”

“Something like that, I’m sure,” Maro handed Julian a mirror, “Now, pick the one you like the best of these, then we’ll talk designs.”

Miles sat back in his chair, still chewing the fruit, “So…I escort you to the wedding? That doesn’t seem too bad. I don’t know what all the fuss was about.”

Maro and Julian’s eyes met. Julian made an uncertain noise.

“Escort may be the wrong word…you have to…drag me.”

Miles blinked, silent for a moment, “Could you repeat that?”

“Well, maybe not dragging the whole way, but I’m expected to put up a fight.”

“What?”

Maro took that moment to stand up and take the bag of mim-mims, “I think these need a wash. I’ll just take them into the kitchen, shall I?” then made a quit exit.

“But…” Miles rubbed a hand over his face, “…there wasn’t any dragging or fighting in the story. It was all hand holding and a bit of crying…dignified stuff.”

“Well, things have changed a bit since that story took place. Long story short, in a traditional Cardassian wedding, one party has to be bought reluctantly to the union. It’s not that unusual really, there were plenty of Earth cultures where it was inappropriate for one party to look too happy at their wedding, even if they were. This is just like that…just turned up a few notches,” Julian was starting to look a little nervous.

“How many notches?”

“Not that many. I’m expected to cry a bit…”Julian stood, suddenly feeling the need to rearrange some of the ornaments on a nearby bookshelf.

“Riiiiiiight…”

“And maybe try to get away a few times.”

“Jesus!”

“I will be begging you to stop, the whole time. Maybe screaming for help as well. Don’t worry, no one will.”

“Oh, what a relief! Wouldn’t want anyone intervening as I kidnap you for your wedding!” Miles crossed his arms, sitting back in his chair.

“Miles, please,” Julian turned, pleading, “This is so important to me. There’s no-one else I’d trust to do this. It has to be you.”

Miles sighed, “You know it’s a bit hard to take you seriously when you look you have a very localised case of Andorian mumps.”

He was silent a moment. Just another thing to add this to the list of things that made him really uncomfortable on this planet. But no, Miles was being supportive. He was being a good friend. He had already made a commitment to Julian’s weird kidnap wedding and dammit, he was going to see it through!

“But…I guess it’s good I started going to the gym again, since I’m going to be dragging you halfway across this town.”

The relief and joy that broke over Julian’s face was the sun coming from behind clouds, “Thank you so much, Miles. I really do appreciate it. Now…where did Maro go? I’m sure he said he had some videos from his wedding saved on his phone, I’d love for you to see a real example of what’s expected.”

Later, as Miles looked down into the small phone screen, watching Prellet Maro scream and beg, face streaked with tears, trying to climb out his window to escape as his _vatush_ (“My older sister, she’s a physicist.”) pulled him back in, he realised he might have bitten off more than he could chew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do Romulans eat spaghetti with a splork and dining scissors? How would I know, I'm not a nerd!


	8. Tekeny the Exile was not good at politics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a discussion of political communication theory and the author remembers Garak is in this story too.

“Well, it seems we are both sufficiently displeased with this arrangement,” Garak smiled over the top of the document he and Councillor Dukat had been fighting over for the last four hours, “New Cardassia and the Widows and Orphans Party are officially in coalition.”

She smiled back, “I think that calls for a drink.”

Garak pulled a bottle of kanar and two glasses from the bottom draw of his desk, pouring two generous glasses. Neela took a sip from the glass, then reached over the desk to pick up the bottle, checking the vintage.

“You know, Councillor, for a housekeeper’s bastard you certainly have very good taste in kanar.”

“And for the ex-wife of a self-serving war criminal you’re strangely reasonable to deal with,” Garak downed his glass and then held it out, letting Neela pour him another and then top herself off. It had been a very long week. “People are full of surprises.”

“Does your future husband know you’re such an outrageous flirt?” she said, smiling over the top of her glass.

“How do you think he became my future husband?” Garak leaned his elbows on his desk, holding the glass of kanar against his forehead, the slightly cool liquid giving him a tiny amount of relief from the headache he felt building.

Neela raised an eye ridge, “A little tired, Councillor?”

“No, not at all. I’m _extremely_ tired. Back on the task at hand, do you have any preference for when the official announcement should be made? I was thinking of a statement at the unveiling of the new Damar memorial.”

“That’s supposed to be a non-partisan event,” Neela swirled the orange liquid in her glass, “the Trads will have a fit.”

“Hebridian Tradition always finds a way to have a fit. It’s what they do. Besides, I have it on good authority that they’re planning to leak their election manifesto immediately before the ceremony.”

“Ah, another headline you can steal from them.”

“We all have our talents.”

Neela stood, adjusting the white widow’s scarf she wore draped elegantly around her neck. Never could the Widow Dukat be accused of not wearing her politics on her sleeve (or around her neck, as the case may be). She looked out of one of the windows of Garak’s office, the one that overlooked the memorial site. The crane holding Damar’s head was poised over the headless statue, the construction workers waiting until tomorrow to add the final touches.

Garak joined her at the window, “You know, we’re really quite lucky that Damar and Dukat had such similar builds. It’s made this whole operation much simpler.”

“Hmm…lop off one head, add another. There’s probably a broader lesson about politics to be found in that somewhere.”

“At least you have a sense of humour about it,” Garak looked askance at the woman, appraising her distinguished profile, the faded scar on her cheek from being hit by debris during the bombardment.

“Do you ever miss him?”

Neela tilted her head to the side, finishing the dregs in her glass before answering, “No. I miss a lot of things: the house we had then, the life I lead, the four children I’ve buried. But I can’t say I ever miss him.”

She turned back to the desk, filling her glass for the third time, Garak refusing the offered refill with a simple gesture.

“Why are we wasting time on the dead? How are things with your lovely little doctor?”

“He’s very well. And not little, thank you very much, he’s actually quite tall.”

“Oh pardon me, your lovely _tall_ doctor then. I head you have Councillor Maro’s husband singing you in.”

“Julian is very fond of young Mister Maro. They’re become fast friends.”

“I never thought you were such a traditionalist, Councillor Garak. A xan’per’il singing in your wedding, like some landed aristocrat. Are you going to let Doctor Bashir work after the wedding or will you just chain him to the stove?”

“A ha ha haaa, you’re such a wit Councillor Dukat. Truly you missed your calling in comedy.”

“I have been told that,” she wandered over to Garak’s bookshelf, tracing a finger over the worn spines, “Ahh, I see you’re a fan of Tekeny the Exile, you have every volume of the Precepts on Politics.”

Garak snorted, “They were in the office when I was assigned to it. Honestly, I’ve always wondered why we put so much stock in the Exile’s work. His political senses can’t have been that sharp, he was exiled after all.”

“Do you want to know my favourite quotation of his?” Neela asked, pulling volume 6 of the Precepts out of the shelf.

“No, but I feel like you’re about to tell me…”

She flicked though the book, “Ahh…here it is…this one: Let it be known, that each time a ruler speaks, he speaks with three voices. The first voice tells the lie, the second speaks another lie he wants his subjects to believe, and with a third voice he whispers the truth that’s buried beneath.”

Garak gave a little sigh (his headache having fully bloomed by now), “Not one of the more popular Precepts…” Clearly staying in places past their welcome was a family hobby with Dukats.

“Now, let’s apply this to…hmm…oh, how about this wedding everyone is talking about? Of course that: the wedding itself, you not standing for re-election, retiring so you can dote on the good doctor and pack him little lunches every day to take to work…”

“I’ll have you know I only do that a few times a week!”

“That there is the first lie. I know it is, because you and Doctor Bashir could have wandered down to any Weddatorium any time in the last five years for a quick and dignified civil ceremony.”

“You said it yourself, I’m a traditionalist.”

Neela held up a finger, hushing him, “The second lie, the one you want people to believe, is that this is your revenge against the Castellan for making you retire, stealing attention away right before the election. And don’t even try to argue against that, if you wanted to stay in the Council you would. I’ve been here for three years and not once has the Castellan ever been able to make you do anything you didn’t want to do.”

“I have the upmost respect for my party leader, he is a politician of rare integrity…”

“And a very tiny brain,” Neela finished off, she put volume 6 back in the bookshelf (not in the correct order, Garak noted) and walked over to Garak, holding her glass out to be refilled, which he did.

“Now, we know the lie you tell _and_ the lie you want people to believe…now we need to know the truth that’s buried under there,” she tilted her head to the side, narrowing her eyes “Which is really deceptively simple. A traditional marriage to a Federaji. The symbolism is almost pedestrian. You’re showing the public that tying ourselves to the Federation doesn’t mean losing our past.”

Garak gave a long sigh, “Remind me why I’m friends with you, Neela?”

“Because I’m a natural comedian, Elim. And I’ll note you haven’t said I’m wrong yet. You’re usually never shy about that.”

She smiled then, a riding hound baring its teeth. Despite his better instincts Garak did like Neela, outside of some members of his own party, she was probably the closest thing to a friend within the Council he had. Plus she was a rare thing: a politician of conviction, and Garak counted himself lucky that her convictions often aligned with his own.

“Is there a reason we’re interrogating my personal life? It could very well be this is just the wedding my mother dreamed for me when I was just a young lad and I’m just trying to fulfil her dying wish.”

“It could be, but I very much doubt it,” she sat down on the edge of Garak’s desk, “I want to know what the Castellan has promised you after we win this election, which we will of course. What is your next step?”

“I think you’re just sad you won’t be able to sleep on my couch in the afternoon anymore after someone else has this office.”

“It is a very nice couch. But I’d still prefer to know what you’re doing next. Is it a nice governorship? Southern Continent perhaps? The orchids bloom all year down there…”

“I think it’s time you were on your way, Counsellor Dukat,” Garak gently ushered Neela towards the door, “I’m sure you have a great many appointments today and your diary manager is always angry at me for delaying you.”

“A judicial appointment then? You may not have a strict legal background but your knowledge of our new Codes is very thorough.”

“Good _day_ , Counsellor.” Garak almost had her through the door.

“Tell me, damn you! Grand Conservator of the University? Head of the State Mining Concern? Diplomatic posting of your choice?”

“I said good day!”

Garak pressed the button to close his door, Neela’s hand snapping out to stop it.

“Wait!”

“Counsellor,” Garak spoke through gritted teeth, “I have a headache. I want to go home. Ensuring a coalition agreement between our parties was not just my last task of the day but my final major task as a politician. Now that it is done I can return to Julian and eat dinner and not think about any of this anymore and the one thing preventing that happy event is you and your incessant questions! Now, what is it you want?!”

Neela had the gall to look affronted, “Well…I was just going to ask where you and the doctor are registered, but if you’re going to be a grump I’ll just choose a wedding gift on my own.”

Garak gave her an exasperated look, “I’ll send you an email with all the details.”

“I look forward to receiving it,” she bowed her head slightly, “Always a pleasure, Counsellor Garak.”

“And you as well, Counsellor Dukat.”


	9. The stink of politics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Damar overseas a peaceful transition to democracy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a mild warning here for unpleasant people, mild violence and mentions of sex work.

The memorial was tense, even Miles could sense that.

It had started off fairly normally: speeches from the Castellan and the Leader of Hebridian Tradition, pulled ribbons, curtains coming down to reveal the new statue of Damar (dedicated to all the martyrs of the Cardassian Liberation Front, naturally), polite applause. Miles had taken a step back, shading his eyes from the harsh sun to look up at Damar, standing there with one palm raised beside his head. Was there something just a little _off_ about the proportions of the statue? Maybe he was imagining things…

The mood had significantly shifted when the Castellan had mounted the stage again to make another speech, surprise and then tension weighing heavy on the air. The Castellan had been so happy to announce that New Cardassia was entering into a coalition agreement with the Widows and Orphans Party. A handsome woman with a long streak of grey in her black hair and a scar on her face stretching from the ridge under her left eye to her chin had joined him on the stage, to rapturous applause (from one half of the people attending at least) and a wild babble of questions from the assembled Cardassian press corps.

When that had quietened down, light refreshment and mingling followed. Really, _really_ tense mingling. The two major parties stuck to opposite sides of the roped off memorial garden, Damar’s shadow stretching between them. Hebridian Tradition’s members looked particularly dour, huddling together with a cloud of resentment hanging over them. The various minor party members, journalists and other hangers on occupied a sort of demilitarised zone between the two majors.

It was easy to tell who was who and their alliances. Miles had noticed in his time here that Cardassians weren’t big fans of jewellery, but they seemed to appreciate a good badge. All of the parties had their own different badges, worn prominently either at the shoulder or in the centre of the chest depending on preference. Julian had helpfully pinned the four interlocking globes of the New Cardassia badge to Miles’ shoulder on the transport ride over. The Hebridian Tradition badge was nearly identical to the ankh-like shape of Cardassian warships, with a change in colour scheme. Widows and Orphans’ badge was a simple white circle, with the Cardassian letters that started the two words intertwined stylistically. There were a few other minor parties present as well, Julian had listed them off as they had walked in (“Ooh, there’s the Union of Conscientious Historians! That group over there is the Wompat Freedom League…and hmm, interesting, Voice of the Colonies came, they usually abstain from these sort of things.”).

Garak was making small talk with the Castellan and a few of the other ministers, Julian standing next to him, on the left, hand on Garak’s arm. The Castellan’s wife (also standing on the left, hand on arm) laughed at something Julian said, covering her mouth.

Miles stayed where he was at the neutral zone of the buffet table. Ugh, this whole thing stunk of politics, very unpleasant. How long would they have to stay here? He considered slipping out and going to hang out with Corak and the other security staff down where the transports were parked, maybe take the tray of oddly coloured mini-quiches (mmm, delicious quiche) with him…

“Chief O’Brien!”

No such luck.

Miles groaned inwardly, but had a smile on by the time he turned and saw the brightly painted Prellet Maro approaching from the New Cardassia side of the reception, dragging a tall and reedy man about Julian’s age with him.

“Chief, how wonderful to see you again! I was hoping Dr Bashir would bring you along today. I’d love for you to meet my husband, Counsellor Breton Maro, Minister for Transport-“

“…Energy and Displaced Persons,” Miles finished, copying Counsellor Maro’s head nod.

“You remembered! How kind of you. Now, I was just telling Breton, wasn’t I saying, darling, how interested we were in hearing about your time on one of the Galaxy class Federation ships. Is it true that spouses and children are allowed to travel with you? Isn’t that _dangerous_?”

Counsellor Maro pursed his lips, Miles caught him whispering under his breath, “Oh, here we go.”

“Well…it is a little, I suppose. But we find that having family, children on board as well, helps the Captain of those vessels-“

“It would be much more dangerous doing that, then say, taking your spouse out on the campaign trail just one little continent away from the one you currently live on. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Ah, well, I suppose that’d depend on-“

“We’re going to do this here, are we?” Breton crossed his arms, turning to face Prellet, “We’re going to have this conversation again, right here and now? In front of the quiches?”

_Oh nooooooooooooooo._

“I don’t know what you’re talking about darling. I was just asking the Chief about Federation Starships. Which one was it you served on again, the Challenger?”

“It was the Ent-“

“We discussed this, Prellet dear. It’s just too dangerous to take you on the road to Southern or South Western.”

Prellet gave up the façade of Miles being a part of this conversation, turning to face his husband, a finger poking into his chest, “ _We_ didn’t discuss this. _We_ were barely a part of it. _You_ decided, just like you always do.”

“I do not always do! How can you be so naïve? The citizens of-“

Miles was trying to edge away from the both of them when Julian appeared holding two long glasses of some bubbly drink, handing one of them to Prellet, and breaking into the conversation.

“Counsellor, the Castellan was looking for you, he said something about a machinery of government change.”

Breton breathed out heavily through his nose, “State above, not again.” He looked down at Prellet, briefly squeezing the hand that had been poking his chest, “We will discuss this later, dear. Good day, Chief O’Brien, it was very interesting to speak to you about your time on the Columbia.”

“It wasn’t the…oh never mind” Miles said to Breton’s back as he walked away.

Pellet sighed dramatically, looking after his husband, “Can you believe him? He’s leaving me for six weeks and expects me to just roll over and accept it.”

“He worries about you, and he’s not entirely wrong you know. There was another bombing on South Western last month,” Julian took a sip of his drink. (Why didn’t Miles get a drink? He wanted one too.)

“He doesn’t understand. I’ll absolutely _die_ if we’re separated for that long. I’ll expire, just like Cassilda when she was sent away from the Yellow King.”

“I’m almost certain you won’t expire, Maro.”

“Is that your expert medical opinion?” Maro placed a pink devilled egg in his mouth, chewing dramatically.

“It is actually.”

“Well, if I do, I expect you to cry at my funeral. And wear that nice dark red outfit of yours, it’s my favourite.” Maro suddenly gave a little intake of breath, looking over Miles’ shoulder, “Oh no! There she is! She’s coming over here.”

“Who?” Julian followed Maro’s eyes, then gave a little groan, “Auugh, doesn’t she have anything better to do?”

“Doesn’t who have anything better to do?” Miles tried to turn around and look but was grabbed my Julian, stopping him from seeing the woman they were referring to.

“Don’t look. She’s only attack if you make eye contact!”

“Just like an ice-shark…” Maro whispered ominously.

Miles did his best to not look at anything, least of all a wandering ice-shark. This was apparently not enough however, as an elegantly dressed older woman wearing a Hebridian Tradition pin approached their group, holding her own tall glass of bubbly drink. Miles’ face twisted. It had been a long time since he’d been in high school, but he still knew a mean girl when he saw one.

“Doctor Bashir, how good to see you again...and your friends,” she smiled, the expression not quite reaching her eyes, “What an exciting day it’s been, so many announcements.”

“Mrs Kattell Dara, good to see you as well. I enjoyed your husband’s speech. Who knew there were so many parallels to be drawn between the Cardassian Resistance and supply side economic theory,” Julian said, a (very) thin veneer of politeness hanging over his words as he gave a tight lipped smile.

Ah, so this must be the wife of the leader of Hebridian Tradition. Miles kept trying to avoid eye contact. He wasn’t quite sure what an ice shark was but if he found out tomorrow that they had steel blue eyes and very long necks he wouldn’t be surprised. He decided to keep a low profile until she swam away.

Kattell Dara was still talking to Julian, moving on to another topic, “…It’s so good of you, I wish I had your strength of character, your dedication to the less fortunate is to be admired.”

“Thank you, Mrs Dara.”

“Kattell, please. No formality between us who have married the State, or will soon at least. Now, don’t mistake me. I have so much sympathy for the plight of the Vorta. They’re not like us, they don’t produce anything, no art, no literature, no music, not to mention they live in filth. It must be a terrible life.”

Jesus! What an appalling woman. Miles was really starting to feel like he needed that drink.

Julian’s eyes narrowed, “Actually, from my work with the Vorta, I believe they _do_ have some aesthetic sense, it’s just different from ours.”

“Different from yours, maybe…”

“And you don’t have to _produce_ something to have a worthwhile life,” the words left Miles’ mouth before he even thought about them. So much for the low profile he was going to keep.

Kattell seemed to notice Miles for the first time, looking at him like he was something unpleasant she’d stepped in, “You must be here for the wedding. I don’t think we’ve been introduced.”

“Miles O’Brien. It’s very nice to-“

Kattell looked away before he even got the sentence out, clearly wanting to focus on her conversation with Julian. Maro stood between the two of them. Miles couldn’t help but none Kattell hadn’t even looked at Maro the whole time she’d been there.

“Now this is why I wanted to speak to you, Doctor Bashir. I would have thought with your strong attachment to the Vorta you would be supportive of Hebridian Tradition’s policy of relocation for them. Kessel District-“

“Vorta Town,” Miles interrupted again ( _Shut up! Why couldn’t he just shut up?!_ ) “It’s called Vorta Town.”

Kattell’s eyes narrowed, “You can call it whatever you like Mister Ryan, it’s name is Kessel District and it’s still in terrible disrepair. They’ve been there for almost 5 years now and have shown no interest or inclination towards living in anything other than squalor. It must be very unsafe.”

“Has it occurred to you that maybe Vorta Town is still unsafe because no one will go out there and repair it?” Julian’s hand tightened around his glass.

“Well, could you blame someone for not wanting to work with a Vorta, after their history here? I wouldn’t want to. Besides, I think we can all agree they’d be better off in a _supervised_ environment. The reservation we’ve proposed would be the perfect solution…for both their physical and moral health.”

“Moral health? What are you talking about, Kattell?”

Kattell gave a little chuckle and sneered, “You’re their doctor, you have to at least be _aware_ that gambling isn’t the only thing they’re doing out of the casinos.”

Oh snap! Julian hadn’t mentioned that during their little visit. Maybe that’s what he’d meant by ‘unique medical needs.’

“The Vorta are all adults, if some of them choose to engage in sex work that’s their business,” Julian took a step closer to Kattell, “And if there wasn’t someone willing to pay for what they’re selling…maybe they wouldn’t sell it.”

Kattell’s nostril’s flared, “How dare you suggest that a Cardassian would stoop so low as to-“

“You know, Kattell,” Maro finally spoke up, “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think I recall hearing your family has property interests in the Kessell district, ones you can’t retake while there are squatters enforcing their rights under the Land Redistribution Code. What a remarkable coincidence.”

Kattell finally looked at Maro, fixing him with a piercing blue gaze. She gave a low hiss in the back of her throat, “Know your place, xan’per’il.”

“I believe that’s what your husband said, last night.”

It happened so quickly, it didn’t even register in Miles’ brain until the act was done. In a flash, Miles saw Kattell Dara raise the hand holding her drink in its long stemmed glass and smash it right across Maro’s cheek.

Everything stopped. Miles felt rather than saw every eye at the reception fix in on the group. He was frozen in place with shock.

Maro, gripping on to the buffet table from the force of the blow, lifted one hand to his cheek, three lines of dark red appearing where the glass had cut him. A hiss came from his throat. He grabbed the platter closest to him ( _not the mini-quiches!_ ) and slammed it across Kattell Dara’s sharply angled face.

The purple and orange quiches flew gracefully through the air, hitting the ground with little ‘splat’ noises.

_That_ was when the fight broke out properly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Political allegory...in MY Star Trek? It's more likely than you think.
> 
> Also, the chapter ends a little suddenly, but it was getting way too long so I decided to cut it off here and add the next scenes to the next chapter. The next chapter should be out fairly quickly.


	10. Nothing is cool anymore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we are caught in the tangle of other people's lives.

Miles combat rolled down the slight slope away from the memorial garden, a plate of jellied macarons flying past him to land in a rose bush. He stumbled, his head still ringing from the nasty right hook he’d caught from the Shadow Minister for Finance. He had to put a stop to this, things were getting nasty up there.

The security detail were all still sitting down with the parked transports, milling around and seeming very unconcerned by the milieu above. Miles ran towards the two guards closest to him, both sitting on camp chairs they’d bought with them and playing Kotra: Travel Edition on a matching folding table.

“You two!” Miles panted (he really needed to work out more), “You’ve got to…oh god…get the others. Big fight. Possible murder. Hurry!”

The two of them looked up from the game, the woman shading her eyes to look up the hill.

She made a contemplative noise, “Ehh…we generally find it better to let them get it out of their systems.”

Her game partner followed her gaze, giving a little chuckle, “I know a bunch of people who are going to sleep well tonight!”

“What?! They could do some serious damage up there!” Miles gestured up the hill, the sound of yelling and smashing glass punctuating his words.

The woman guard rolled her eyes, “Their lack of social skills do not constitute our emergency. Plus we’re in the middle of a game. And Repor here is known to cheat.”

“Funny how you only ever say that when you’re losing.”

Miles groaned. There he was, almost forgetting he was on Hell Planet. Right, try another track.

“Where’s Corak?”

“Which Corak?” Repor asked

“What do you mean ‘which Corak?’”

“Well, there’s two. Which one do you want?”

“Yeah, it’s a pretty common name,” the female guard added.

Miles made a frustrated noise. Somewhere up the hill, one of the Counsellors was yelling “I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you with fire!”

“The Corak who works for Counsellor Garak,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Ohhhhhhh, the nice Corak,” Repor said.

“He is nice. Great listener,” the other guard added, nodding sagely as she moved one of her travel sized Kotra pieces on the board, then picked up the dice.

“Where. Is. He?”

“No need to get snippy. He’s in the flower garden over there,” she gestured behind her, then leaned conspiratorially over the little table to her friend, “Picking flowers for his lady friend.”

Repor made a high pitched _ooo-ooo_ noise.

Miles gave a frustrated cry and stomped off to towards the garden. The two guards watched him go.

“What’s his problem?” Repor asked.

The woman shrugged, “Who knows. Looks like he needs a holiday.”

Miles did indeed find Corak (the nice one) in the garden, using his nails to pinch flowers away from their bushes and putting them together into a bunch, humming tunelessly to himself.

“Corak! Thank God, I’ve found you!”

“Chief O’Brien! How are things going up there?”

“Terribly, everyone is trying to kill everyone else!”

“That’s nice,” Corak paused over a delicate looking bloom, “Do you think these will keep overnight?”

“You’ll need to put them in some water,” Miles stopped himself, no getting distracted now, “Corak! Listen to me. You’re Legislative Security, you need to get up there and secure the legislative before someone loses an eye!”

Corak looked up from the flower bed, “Get up where?”

“To the reception! There’s a fight!”

“A fight!?” Corak stepped back from the flowers, not before pulling off one of the ones he’d been examining and adding it to the bunch in his hand, “Why didn’t you say anything? Here, hold these.”

Once Legislative Security intervened (a few quick plasma rounds fired into the sky could do wonders for bipartisan cooperation) the fight broke up fairly quickly. The various Counsellors, their partners, journalists, and others slunk away, trailing down to the transports. Corak grabbed Miles by the back of his shirt collar as he walked by, plucking the bunch of flowers he’d entrusted to Miles out of his hands.

“If something like that happens again,” Corak tapped Miles’ chest with the bouquet, “you really have to tell me straight away.”

Miles felt a muscle under his eye begin to twitch. He probed the skin there gently, it still feeling very tender. He bent down to look into one of the side mirrors of the transport, seeing an impressive black eye just starting to form.

Great. Just bloody magnificent.

~*~*~

“Alright Molly love, I’ll chat to you later,” Miles waved enthusiastically down the vidscreen, “Say goodbye and I love you to your brother for me.”

“Yeah, sure Dad,” Molly was already looking off screen, barley concealing her boredom.

“Oh, and I really do like the new hair-do. Very cool looking.”

She didn’t conceal the eye roll this time, “It’s not cool, _Dad_. Nothing is cool anymore.”

“Oh…right…of course. What did you call it again?”

“It’s an Andorian mullet.”

“Riiight, that would explain the white,” Miles took a deep breath, “Well, love you sweetie. Get your mother for me, so I can say hello to her too.”

“Yeah, bye Dad. Love you too.” Molly disappeared off the screen, a loud ‘MOOOOOOOOOM, DAD WANTS TO TALK TO YOU!’ coming through the speakers in her absence.

Keiko sat down in front of the screen, giving a slightly tired smile, “Hi Miles, how’re things go-…oh my God, what happened to your eye?”

“Got punched by the Shadow Minister for Finance.”

“How did that happen?”

“It’s a long story.” Miles touched the bruised flesh, wincing as he did so, the hypo Julian had given him for the pain last night before bed was wearing off. He counted himself lucky it hadn’t knocked him out so badly he’d forgotten his scheduled weekly call with the kids.

“Enough about me. How are you going? You got a new haircut too.”

“Yeah, Molly had been bugging me to let her try that new look, and I’d been wanting to cut mine off for ages, so we made it a date. What do you think?” Keiko turned her head side to side, showing off her much shorter hair.

“Looks very…different.”

Keiko’s eyebrows crawled up her head, “You don’t like it?”

“I didn’t say that…it’s just…I’m used to it being long on you.”

“Well I like it. It’s a lot less work,” she said, crossing her arms and sitting further back in her chair, “How are things going over there with the wedding?”

“It’s been a journey…”

“You have to tell Garak how sorry I am I couldn’t make it. I would have loved to go, but with this Sex Pollen Symposium coming up and Kirayoshi starting school, I just couldn’t make the time, especially since I’m giving the key note address this year…”

“Wait…Garak invited you to the wedding too?”

“Miles…” Keiko gave an exasperated look, “I had brunch with Garak twice a week for six years, Bottomless Mimosa Tuesdays and Thursdays at Quark’s. He’s one of my closest friends, one of the _only_ friends I had there. Of course he invited me to the wedding.”

Miles racked his brain, trying to remember Keiko ever mentioning brunch with Garak, (or Quark holding Bottomless Mimosa days, that seemed uncharacteristically generous for him) “Really? On Deep Space Nine?”

“No Miles, on the other Cardassian-built space station we lived on for over half a decade.” Now Keiko was rolling her eyes, eerily mimicking Molly, “Anyway, I’m a bit busy this morning. Is there something you wanted to talk about?”

“No…no,” Miles tried to smile, “Just wanted to say hi, see how you’re going.”

“We’re going great, thanks for asking.” The words came out final, a little harsh.

“Right…well…same time next week then?”

Keiko’s face softened a little, “Sure. I’ll make sure Molly calls you on time next time.”

“Thanks ho-” Miles stopped himself right before the pet name came out, trying not to make this call any worse than it already had been, “Thanks Keiko. Chat to you later.”

“Bye Miles. Look after yourself, ok?”

The screen blinked black. Miles’ shoulders sagged as he got up, walking only a few paces to flop face first onto the bed. Another successful interaction with his (ex) wife and children. No matter what he said, he seemed to be an annoyance to Keiko and an embarrassment to Molly (though that second part was more understandable, Molly was about to turn 13 after all). Even Yoshi, his little mate, had seemed a bit distant today, demanding that he be called by his full name from now on since he was in first grade and everything.

Vikya’s brisk morning knock sounded on the door, announcing breakfast. Miles didn’t feel particularly hungry. Maybe he could just stay in here all day, portion out breakfast when he felt like it and supplement that with some complementary bags of nuts he’d stashed in his carryon bag. He didn’t want to deal with the tangle of Julian and Garak’s lives today. Plus, Counsellor Dukat had crashed on the couch downstairs (“Lost the apartment keys in the scrum. Be a friend Elim and let me stay, it’s far too late to drive out to the Estate.”) and she was well…terrifying.

A muffled beep from his PADD drew Miles out from his misery and back into the real world. He groped around, finding it tucked under his pillow where he’d shoved it before going to sleep. The screen showed one message from Nog.

_Hi Chief! Got a lead on a uniform 4 u. Come 2 hotel, ill take measurements, then lunch? Got a surprise 4 u 2._

Miles was almost about to try and get out of it, claim some other pressing wedding business ( _Sorry Nog lad, I’d love to hang out but I’ve got to shove my hand into a waste disposal to appease the ancient Cardassian god of fidelity or something_ ), but it occurred to him that maybe getting out of the house and looking at people who weren’t Garak and Julian might be good for him.

A second text came through.

_Do u no where we can get mim-mim fruit? Need it 4 a trade._

Miles had to laugh. Maybe it was fate?

Feeling suddenly a little more positive about everything, Miles pushed himself out of bed. Maybe he did want breakfast after all.

After eating and a quick shower, Miles had practically run out the door, grabbing the bag of mim-mims from the kitchen on his way (and tiptoeing very quietly around Counsellor Dukat, snoring on the couch). After a quick bus trip across town, he found Jake and Nog had set themselves up comfortably in a large hotel room at the Lakat Interplanetary Arms.

“We were in separate rooms, but they let us switch to this one,” Jake had explained as he let Miles in.

“Better for podcasting,” Nog added.

“Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”

Miles looked around the door for the source of voice, recognising it instantly. There she was, dressed in the red and white she favoured, looking a little older and a little more tired around the eyes (as no doubt he did as well), but it was still unmistakably her…

“Kira!”

…And there had never been anyone he was happier to see. She’d understand. She’s appreciate the suffering he’d been put through.

Miles pulled her into a warm hug, “You’re here! Thank god you’re here.”

He heard her laugh into his shoulder, hugging him back.

“Things are going that well, huh?”

“You have no idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand this is where the previous chapter was meant to finish. We got there in the end. 
> 
> I hope I didn't make Keiko too mean in this. I wanted to get across she's got her own life (and has always had her own life, one that Miles was not very aware of) and is super over Miles and his bullshit, without falling into much into any gross "bitchy ex-wife" tropes. 
> 
> As always, let me know what you think!


	11. No Friend but the Founders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we travel back in time and are then bought rudely into the present.

_Two years previously…_

She is hungry but that is alright. That is as it should be. The pain of the hunger (low and dull as a stone, no longer a sharp knife), now as much of a part of her as any of her selves, is a welcome penance. They will know her faith through pain as They know all things, and They will come back for them. She and the others will leave Cardassia and the Door will no longer be closed.

She, and the others of her, are the last to maintain the fast. Keevan was the first to fall (They had chosen not to bless him as They blessed her, with a great faith), one of him choosing a handful of cashews over redemption and the others of him following soon after.

The Gelnons fell quickly then, ever followers. Luaran held on longer until one of her collapsed and Doctor Bashir was called. There was a Cardassian doctor who came with him sometimes then, he had held a tube and threatened them all with it, showing where it would go if they didn’t eat ( _Terrible. Awful. Sick and scared and crying_ ).

Doctor Bashir had yelled. The Cardassian doctor didn’t return.

Yelgrun, loyal and faithful, ever kind, has eaten today. She can smell it inside him. Yabu milk and lychees and yarmok sauce. He sits beside her on her pallet and strokes a hand down her hair, brittle and falling out as it is. She isn’t angry. Her faith will be enough for all of them. The fast will show Them this and then the Door will reopen.

“Doctor Bashir is here again, Kilana.”

All of her laugh (There are four of her here, in the Dark Place there had been fifteen but now there are four. There had been hunger then too).

“He wants to talk.”

A large Cardassian, a new face, is here too. His eyes show fear as he bends down and picks her up with the gentleness of picking up a sickly child. This is very amusing to her for some reason. Him, afraid? Of what? He cannot know the fear of the ever closed Door.

He carries her like a porcelain doll and deposits her onto a chair in the kitchen. There is her favourite cup on the table, with its chipped handle and purple cactus flowers, filled with almond milk and…something else she can smell…protein? One of the Doctor’s gels that he has been trying to ply her with for weeks. Her head swims. Back in her room another of her retches just from the smell of it.

“Did you just want me to bring the one…or all of them?” the big Cardassian asks to Doctor Bashir.

“No. Just the one. Thank you Corak. You can wait out by the transport if you like.”

She feels him hesitate where he is standing beside her, shifting his weight from one leg to the other.

“It’s alright. We’re quite safe in here. Yelgrun will fetch you if there’s any problems.”

Yelgrun sits down beside her and takes one of her hands in his.

The big Cardassian makes an unsure noise but leaves anyway. There is a woman with Doctor Bashir, a Bajoran with short red hair standing next to the table.

“Kilana, this is Colonel Kira. I’ve asked her to come here and talk with you about the Founders.”

Kilana snaps back from where she had been distracted by a green beetle crawling over her fingers back in their bedroom, its carapace shining rainbow in the afternoon sunlight.

“Hello Colonel Kira,” she smiles as she speaks. She is polite, meant to disarm and make others feel safe. She is good at this. It is one of the gifts They gave her.

“Hello Kilana. Julian…Doctor Bashir tells me you’ve been fasting,” the woman sits down, “Can you tell me about why you’ve been doing that?”

She only allows herself to laugh inside her bedroom (it would be rude to do it in front of them). This is pointless. Doctor Bashir knows why, she has explained it many times to him. He will have already explained it to this Colonel.

“By the fast we are cleansed,” she says simply.

“All are in sin,” Yelgrun murmurs the response, a force of habit more than anything. She has suspected for some time that his faith is weakening. No matter. She will be strong for all of them.

“What sin do you need to be cleansed of?”

Kilana cannot help but look at the Bajoran woman as if she is simple. It’s very obvious.

“The sin of losing the war, Colonel.”

The Colonel and Doctor Bashir share a look.

“Kilana, we’ve talked about this,” Doctor Bashir speaks now, “You and all the Vorta that were in the shipping container…”

_The Dark Place..._

“You were all defrosted…birthed right at the end of the war. You had nothing to do with whether the war was lost or won.”

“My antecedents did. Many of the Kilanas the preceded and live at the same time as me…” _Beyond the closed Door_ , “…served with great honour during the war.”

“But that wasn’t you!” Doctor Bashir is starting to get frustrated. She almost feels sorry then. Doctor Bashir is kind to them. He doesn’t have to be.

Colonel Kira turns to the Doctor and whispers for him to take a break. Doctor Bashir gets up and walks away from the table.

Colonel Kira turns back to her.

“Have you ever thought that maybe the Founders aren’t punishing you?”

What a stupid thing to say.

“If we are not being punished, why were we left here? Why do the Founders not send for us to return?”

“Because the Founders...they’re healing…they’re changing in the Link.”

“A God does not need to heal. Nor do they need to change!”

“The very nature of your gods is change,” Doctor Bashir says, exasperated, from where he’s leaning against the wall.

“Julian!” Colonel Kira gives him a warning. She turns her attention back to Kilana, “I had a friend…he was a Founder. His name was Odo. He wouldn’t have wanted you to be punished like this, to live like this. I…I knew him, I _loved_ him. He didn’t like to see people in pain. Anyone.”

“Even a Vorta?”

“Yes. Even a Vorta.”

Kilana’s hands clench and unclench. She had heard of this, a Founder who worked with the Federation, “He was but one…”

“All are one and the same in the Great Link,” Yelgrun says softly. Her eyes dart to him. The opening line of all of their prayers.

“The drop becomes the ocean.” This time she gives the response.

“Yes! That’s right! I know Odo wasn’t angry with you, so…the other Founders can’t be angry with you either.”

This can’t be true. She knows. She has felt Their rage before, when one of her predecessors let a Founder die…

“If They aren’t angry then why are we here? Why…why are we left to suffer like this, when before we were multitudes and now we are few? The Door is closed. It is closed and it will never be reopened!”

In the bedroom two of her begin to cry. Kira reaches out and holds Kilana’s face in her hands.

“Kilana. Odo doesn’t want you to suffer like this, any of you. He wouldn’t have wanted you to starve to death because of…of this sin.”

Now all of her are crying. She is so tired. Maybe…maybe…

“Does he forgive us?” she asks, voice cracking, gripping Kira’s wrist.

“Yes! Yes, Odo forgives you. He…uh…wants you to be happy, to…to live your lives. To end the fast!”

“Are y-you sure?”

“I’m certain. Kilana, please…” Kira sits closer and gently pushes the mug of milk and protein gel towards her, “…please end this.”

Kilana puts her hands around the mug, “Will you…will you tell me more about him?”

“Of course. I’ll tell you everything. Just…please drink it.”

She raises the mug to her lips and drinks.

~*~*~

“Do you think you took that a bit too far?”

It’s an hour later, when he and Kira are leaving, having made sure all the Kilanas have taken in some nutrition and left instruction with the other Vorta on what to feed them in the coming days, that Julian asks Kira the question.

She shrugs, “I got them eating, didn’t I?”

Julian opens the door to the transport, letting Kira climb in first, “I think Kilana was getting a bit fixated on all that stuff you told her about Odo. She’s very influential in that group…”

Kira made a dismissive noise, “Don’t worry about it. I’m sure she’ll have forgotten all about it in a few weeks.”

Julian still doesn’t look convinced and tells Kira the same. She isn’t worried.

“They’ve worshipped the Founders in the same way for hundreds, possibly thousands of years. How much difference could one conversation make?”

~*~*~

_Present Day…_

“They’re not coming.”

Julian sighed, forearm resting on his head. He put his PADD with the message from his mother (not even a call, a _message_ ) onto the side table beside the bed. He heard a little sigh beside him then felt Garak’s cool hand on his chest, solid and reassuring.

“I’m sorry darling.”

“Don’t be. I should have guessed when they were taking so long to respond,” Julian effected a shrug.

“What did it say?”

He made an exasperated gesture with the arm that wasn’t over his head, “That they didn’t feel safe coming this far off world. Its nonsense, they came to Deep Space 9 just fine. My father used to work on a shuttle, for god’s sake.”

Garak made a contemplative noise. He didn’t believe it either. Julian turned back over, leant his head on Garak’s shoulder, his favoured spot. Garak put his arm around Julian’s shoulder, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

“I wish…” Julian paused, then seemed to breathe out for the first time in minutes, “I wish I hated them. It’d make this so much easier if I could.”

Garak felt hot tears on his shoulder and allowed himself a moment or two to imagine a few creative and unpleasant ways Julian’s parents could meet a grisly end. Transporter malfunction, a few poisons he’d come across in his time in the Order (the ‘Orinion bowel-loosener’ held particular appeal), maybe just a good old fashioned garrotting. Of course these days, with a respectable political career to maintain, he’d never act on such thoughts, but thinking about it didn’t hurt anyone (as much as he sometimes wished it could).

As much as he hated seeing Julian this upset, he had to admit though this was probably the best outcome. The pain of them not coming would be briefer than the strain of their presence at the wedding, their barely concealed disapproval, Julian’s resentment and discomfort, his own seething and petty anger, all thinly papered over with smiles and polite lies.

There had been an attempt, after Julian’s father had gotten out of jail and the war had ended, to rebuild the relationship with his parents…but apparently the ‘unconditional love’ which had led Julian’s parents to seek illegal augmentation of their child did not extend to an alien husband and life on a world outside of the Federation. When you want a perfect child, there are usually some fairly strong ideas about what ‘perfect’ entails.

“At least we know now, no more stringing us along,” Julian said, wiping the heel of his hand over one eye, “I can finish up the seating for the reception.”

“We’ll finish it up together,” Garak said softly, “You’ve been doing too much for this wedding on your own.”

“You’ve been busy…”

“Well, I’m not anymore. I think you’ll find the political class will be laying fairly low for the next week or so.”

“God, I haven’t even looked at the news services,” Julian moved as if to roll over and grab his PADD, Garak holding on tight and stopping him.

“Oh leave it, darling, I’m sure we can guess what’s been said,” Garak wrapped his other arm around Julian, as he tried to wriggle away, tickling his sides and earning a yelp and smothered laugh.

“Stop it, stop it,” Julian grabbed the tickling hand, legs kicking out as he laughed, “Shhh, Miles is right next door.”

“You’re shushing me? Aren’t you the one making all the noise?”

“You’re _making_ me make all the noise,” Julian turned Garak’s hand over, looking at the scratches on his arm from the nails one of his fellow legislators, “Are you sure you don’t want me to run the regenerator over those?”

“Oh no, I intend to wear these with pride. It’s not every day I get to sweep in and save you from near certain death, dearest.”

“My hero,” Julian schooched up and kissed Garak, punctuating it with a second one as Vikya’s knock came at the door. He laid back, Garak getting up to get their breakfast and speak briefly to Vikya.

“Morning,” Vikya already had a hand on her hip and A Look on her face as Garak opened the door, still holding Miles’ breakfast tray, “Am I feeding her downstairs too?”

Garak bent over to pick up Julian and his trays, “If you wouldn’t mind, Miss Vikya.”

She made a displeased noise, “I suppose. But I want her out of there before I start cleaning. I want to send out the vacubot today.”

“Of course.”

“And strip the bed when you’re done in here. I need to wash the sheets.”

“We’ll remember,” Garak gave a small smile, Vikya already moving down the hall towards the guest bedroom.

“She’s in a good mood today,” Julian commented, already sitting at the breakfast table.

“Mmm, practically gleeful.”

They sat down to breakfast, Garak finally giving in and looking at the news services. The Lakarian Post’s front page was running with “Damar Disaster!” – he did appreciate a good alliteration. The Times of Lakat had gone with “Buffet of Death!” – a touch hyperbolic (no-one had actually _died_ ) but he liked the drama of it. The Prime Financial Review was running the rather dull “Memorial Unveiling Goes Poorly” – ugh, economists, no imagination at all.

He scanned all the major headlines and front page stories, noting with no small pleasure that most of them at least mentioned the new coalition…if a bit lower down in the articles than he would have liked. Still, at least the Trad’s election manifesto was completely buried. It wasn’t even in the A section of the paper. Magnificent.

“Elim…” Julian said from his side of the table, pouring milk into his coffee, “If my parents aren’t coming…then do we still need to do _serap-tal_?”

Garak looked up from his PADD, taking a piece of toast from his plate, “Hmm…I suppose not, dearest.”

The _serap-tal_ , the sharing of select secrets between the parents of a potential couple, things the two families would need to know going forward, formed a very large part of the Cardassian wedding ceremony. It was the part which could stretch out for weeks, depending on how many secrets a pair of families had and how coy they wanted to be with them.

With Tain and Mila both dead (not that Garak would have wanted Tain involved), and Julian’s parents not taking part, it seemed it had become rather redundant now though.

“It’s a pity, Neela and Breton have been interrogating me for weeks to come up with things to tell your parents,” Garak bit into his toast. He’d asked them to stand in as surrogates some months ago.

“Not too harshly, I hope?” Julian raised an eyebrow.

“Of course not darling.” ( _Pfft, they called that a water boarding? Pathetic._ )

“Still,” Garak continued, “if we’re not doing _serap-tal_ we can move the wedding itself up a little, if you like.”

Julian hummed as he ate more breakfast “We could…maybe by a week? All of the off-world guests should be here by then. I’ll talk to Prellet and the reception venue about it later.”

“You talk to Prellet, _I’ll_ call the reception place.”

Julian smiled, giving Garak’s hand a quick squeeze in response. They were interrupted by the sound of the guest bedroom door slamming and feet running down the hall coming through the walls.

Julian looked towards the source of the noise, “He’s in a rush this morning…”

“He certainly is. I hope everything’s alright.”

“I wouldn’t worry,” Julian said, “He’s probably just going out to get some air.”

“Mmm…probably.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the first bit of this chapter was initially going to be told largely through exposition but that was getting a bit awkward and didn't fit in well with the tone of what was going on it the rest of the chapter it was meant to be in so I cut it here. 
> 
> Also, can you tell I'm really into the idea of hive minds. My headcannon for the Vorta is that they aren't as connected as say, the Borg, but have a low level awareness of what their other clones are doing while still having a rough concept of the individual.
> 
> As always, I'd love to hear what you think. :)


	12. Mars-feed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the listsicle is still a valid form of journalism.

_From: contenteditor@themartian.ma_

_To: jsisko@fednewsservice.gov.fed_

Hi Jake,

Thanks for sending through that. I’ve reviewed your initial drafts and all look good so far, I’ll send through some more detailed feedback soon.

On a slightly different note, I was wondering if you’d be interested in doing some lighter content for our daily service, Mars-feed? Nothing too taxing, maybe a listsicle or some travel blogging? We’d offer the same rate as what we’re giving you for the main article. We’re a bit strapped for content this month.

Let me know,

J J Jameson

_From jsisko@fednewsservice.gov.fed_

_To: contenteditor@themartain.ma_

No worries. I’ll fire up the Top 10-erator. Did plenty of those for the Luna Colony Service. Will have something to you by deadline tomorrow.

_Sent from my PADD._

_From: contenteditor@themartian.ma_

_To: jsisko@fednewsservice.gov.fed_

You’re a life saver, I owe you. Thx.

_Sent from my PADD._

~~Ten Hidden Gems of Cardassia Prime for the Adventurous Traveller~~

~~Ten best places to binge donuts in your hire transport in Lakat~~

~~Top 10 differences in restaurants between Lakar and Lakat that only foodies will care about~~

Top 10 Facts about Cardassian weddings you didn’t know. ~~Number four will knock your socks off~~

INSERT FLAVOUR TEXT HERE – will add later. Background? Tie into main article? – _note: ask ed about cross content promotional policy…_

1\. The vast majority of Cardassian Weddings are civil ceremonies and have been for a long time.  
  


According to Cardassian State Archives, 87 per cent of weddings in Cardassia are done through civil ceremonies at Weddatoriums, where you can apply for a marriage licence, have the ceremony done, and file the appropriate paperwork in approximately 1 hour and 25 minutes (if there’s a line). During the Pre-Dominion military regime this number was actually higher, as part of the attempt to regulate and bureaucratise every aspect of Cardassian life. Total bummer!  
  
During this period, traditional (non-civil) weddings became the purview of the upper classes, leading to them becoming known for a certain degree of decadence, some of them lasting up to six weeks. Although civil ceremonies are easy to find out about, we don’t know a lot about traditional weddings, but what we have been able to figure out is in the rest of this article!

2\. Traditionally, weddings last about a month to six weeks…but that’s not as bad as it sounds.  
  
So yeah, you saw up there where I said weddings last for about a month, that’s a thing. Sounds exhausting right? Well, turns out it’s not that bad. A lot of the things we would consider preparations for a wedding are part of the wedding itself in Cardassian culture. Choosing centrepieces? Part of the wedding. Choosing a font for the invitations? Part of the wedding. Suit fittings? Part of the wedding. Do any of these things have a particular amount of ceremony attached to them? Not really. Don’t ask me, it’s weird, and honestly I think a lot of this is done so people can take more leave around their weddings.  
  
You can already see how that could stretch out, but then there’s _serap-tal_ as well. That’s where families share secrets in preparation for their kids getting married. Got any illegitimate kids? Is Uncle Avor a dirty Vorta fucker? Is Grandpa way too into ska (the worst musical genre in all of galactic history)? Time to get it all out in the open during _serap-tal_. With both of these things, it’s pretty easy to see how a wedding can stretch out over a month.  
  
**Cardassan Fun fact Number 1** : a lack of disclosure during _serap-tal_ of something that later brings shame on the family (looking at you, Uncle Avor) is grounds for divorce.

3\. Although people have attended receptions, up until now, no non-Cardassian has ever attended the actual wedding ceremony, so what actually happens is still a mystery.  
  
Yep, you read that right. The actual wedding ceremony itself (not all the stuff around it) has never been witnessed by a non-Cardassian. Your intrepid reporter is invited to one though so hopefully that will change soon. (Unless I’m just the required ceremonial sacrifice or something. But I’m sure my editor would have told me if that was the case. What’s that? You guys took out a really big life insurance policy on me before I left Mars?…uh oh…)

4\. One of the few things we do know is that music plays a really big part in Cardassian weddings.  
  
So, you guys ever noticed how there’s no music on Cardassian radio? It’s all those 400 part melodramas where everyone dies at the end. (I am _living_ for the Cardassian Broadcasting Service’s latest production of _Cassilda and the Yellow King_ though. The part where he takes off her glove, very steamy.)  
  
In fact, have you ever heard _any_ Cardassian music at all? Classical? Opera? Jazz? Hair metal? Experimental electro-funk? I bet you haven’t! And you wouldn’t be alone, because music in Cardassian culture…well…it’s a bit more private than in a lot of others. The only place you’ll hear music in a semi-public setting here is in the businesses which form part of the _harputta-shobet_ (the water business), a rough grouping of trades that make up the night life, think things like bars and clubs, casinos, tea houses, and brothels.  
  
**Cardassian Fun fact Number 2** : an old slang term for a brothel in Cardassian is an instrument shop – something Nog (my co-host on the hit podcast Surak’s Trap House, available wherever you download good podcasts) and I found out the hard way when I asked the concierge at our hotel where we could pick up a Cardassian drum. Don’t look at me like that, his step-mom collects musical instruments!

Anyway, one thing I have been able to find out about weddings is that music and singing form a very big part of the ceremony. Considering how intimate music is here, that probably ties into the fact that foreigners haven’t been permitted to attend weddings up until recently. I should probably have asked a xeno-anthorpologist to help me out with this article, now that I think about it…

5.The _Xan’per’il_ sings in the wedding in a traditional ceremony.  
  
‘Whoa Jake,’ you’re probably saying, ‘you’re throwing a lot of Cardassian words at me. How am I expected to keep up?’ And to that I say: ‘I don’t know, go read something else I guess!’  
  
So first things first, I should explain what a _xan’per’il_ is. For this I went to a good friend and reluctant Cardassian expert I knew, Colonel Kira Nerys of Deep Space 9. She told me a _xan’per’il_ is sort of halfway between a traditional musician and an officiant. They’re one of the last semi-religious figures in Cardassian society, and in some more rural areas are known to still do things like tell fortunes and bless babies. They also do traditional make-up for weddings, tell stories, sing, dance, and are usually required to play several music instruments.

“I’ve only ever seen one before,” Kira told me, “They bought one to the concentration camp I grew up in to perform the wedding for the camp’s Gul. We got an extra bread ration that day.”

Wow, that got depressing fast. Thanks Kira!

**Cardassian Fun Fact Number 3** : Up until the modernisation of the family law codes by the Second Detapa Council, _xan’per’il_ were not allowed to enter into a full marriage. They could enter contracts to become concubines for periods of 5, 10, or 15 years. Being able to keep a spouse and a _xan’per’il_ was considered a status symbol during a lot of Cardassian history.

6\. A lot of marriages are arranged here.

  
About 60 per cent of all marriages in Cardassia are arranged, but like the amount of non-civil weddings being performed, that’s changing too. There has been an increase in love matches since the end of the Dominion War, which matches up with the general loosening of social controls by the Second Depata Council, and the significant reduction in population due to the war.

7\. A traditional ceremony involves the imbibing of snef leaf, a mild psychotropic.

  
That’s right, we getting lit!  
  
Snef is a small bush that’s leaves, when dried and chewed, produce a mild hallucinogenic effect. You typically chew some right at the start of the wedding. That’s it. Sorry, there’s not much else to say about this one. I’ll let you know if I see any really cool colours during the wedding.

8\. It’s traditional for the couple to turn up late to their reception.

  
You heard right! Typically you’re past the salad and seafood course and well into pre-mains before the couple turn up. They’re usually around for the slaughter of the ceremonial zabu or yabu. We’ll get to that in a second…

9\. There are laws that limit how far a _vatush_ has to drag the person they’re bringing to the wedding.

  
After the landmark court case of Sotan -v- Langar & Langar in the mid-1800s, where Sotan was required to drag a young Mr Langar from one side of the Southern Continent to the other resulting in permanent damage to…well…all of his body, the judges in that case set down limitations on how far a _vatush_ could be required to drag someone (topping out at 5 kilometres), how much force the drag-ee (the technical term) could use to try and resist, and limited the use of restraints to “rope o’ no more thane a fingur-width.”  
  
These laws are all still on the books today, by the way. Another win for the slow march of judicial reform.

10\. There’s a version of the vatush for the other party to the wedding (usually the groom) called the vatonn’r – their main role is to slaughter zabu or yabu for the wedding feast.  
  
Generally they just hang out with the party to the wedding who isn’t the drag-ee until they get there. Seems like the easier job to me.  
  
Then after the wedding, they have to slaughter either a zabu or a yabu for the wedding feast. Typically the wedding couple sits in front of vatonn’r and it’s considered auspicious if you get sprayed by the blood. Then you have your first dance. So, pretty normal really.

So that’s it! Top 10 facts about Cardassian weddings that I’ve been able to glean so far. Now you’re almost as ready as I am to take part in a Cardassian traditional wedding. For more updates on my travels check out my blog and podcast (NOTE: ADD LINKS) and make sure to follow me at (ADD SOCIALS).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do not @ me about my opinions on ska. It's based on deep trauma from being a teenager in the late 90's/early 2000's. ;)


	13. The Great Schism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a shipping war.

“Alright Chief, arms out.”

Nog started to take Miles’ measurements, running the Point-n-Measure-6000 over the back of his shoulders. Kira made herself at home on a chair, putting her feet up on an impersonal little table, the kind that was universal to hotel rooms, no matter the planet.

“So, how are things going with the wedding, Chief?”

Miles took a deep breath in and out before answering, “Do you remember that time I was put in a terrible prison in my own mind for twenty years, but it was only five minutes in the real world?”

“Oh yeah, can’t forget that one.”

“Well…this is worse than that.”

“I think you’re being a bit dramatic, Chief,” Nog said from the ground, where he taking hip and outer leg measurements, “I’m going to have to take your inseam now…”

“That is absolutely never going to happen, Lieutenant.”

Nog rolled his eyes as he stood up from the floor, “Fine, I’ll just send what I have. I hope you like having a baggy crotch.”

“I love it actually, it’s how I wear all my pants,” Miles sniped back.

“Not going well then?” Jake asked, flipping through TV channels.

Miles’ only response was to gesture to his black eye.

“Oh yeah, Kett told me she saw you at the memorial opening. She said you landed a good one on one of the Shadow Ministry,” he paused on the channel surfing, coming across footage of the memorial ‘incident’ being replayed on a news channel, the footage freezing as the Leader as the Wompat Freedom League forcibly shoved a large block of cheese downs some poor staffer’s throat.

“Not quite as good as the one she landed on me.”

Kira gave a sigh, looking at the footage, “All that drunkenness and violence, Damar would have loved it.”

“So what are we doing for lunch?” Miles clapped his hands in anticipation.

“I’d kill for some good Klingon food,” Jake said.

“Eh, I’d really prefer something less alive,” Kira ran a hand through her hair, “The concierge mentioned there was a really good Vulcan-Andorian fusion place a few blocks from here…”

“Sorry, we might have to put it off for an hour or so. We just have one thing to deal with,” Nog said, pressing buttons on his PADD, “Quark was meant to beam down with the Colonel, but he’s disappeared and he isn’t responding to my texts. I just picked him up on the tracker…”

“You’ve got a tracker on your uncle?”

“You’ve met him, haven’t you?” Nog gave Miles a tired look, then turned back to his PADD, “According to the tracker he’s right on the edge of town, right in the middle of somewhere called the Kessel district. Hmm…it doesn’t look like any buses go out that far.”

“We could hire a transport…” Kira suggested.

Realisation dawned on Miles ( _Bloody hell, Quark_ ), “Don’t bother with that, I think I know someone who can drive us…”

Luckily, Corak wasn’t busy, with both Garak and Julian staying home that day, and was more than happy to drive them. He didn’t seem his usually bubbly self though, the reason for which became clear on the drive through town.

“So, then she was telling me all about the Hyades in Winter and how it was the best of Mala Maca’s earlier works, and clearly superior to the Hyades in Spring which is usually considered her best writing, and you know what I said?”

Jake and Nog both shifted forward on their seats, listening intently to Corak’s tale of woe.

“What did you say?”

“It was so stupid! It just came out. I couldn’t stop myself.”

“Tell us!”

“Yeah, spit it out!”

“I said…” Corak sighed, “ _Miss Vikya, I never thought about it that way. You’re absolutely right_.”

Jake and Nog both groaned dramatically.

“Aw man, rookie mistake!” Jake said.

“The rookiest.”

“Now she probably thinks I’m not interested. I’m going to die alone,” Corak groaned dramatically, pressing buttons to alter the course of the transport he was driving for the group.

Miles rolled his eyes from the back seat, “It was one conversation, and you’re what? 20? I wouldn’t give up on love just yet, lad.”

“Actually, I’m 22, so I think I’m a good judge of when my life is over.”

They drove up on the square, parking the transport in Odo’s shadow. Nog pressed a few buttons on his PADD as everyone poured out, Jake taking a few quick photos of the statue. Corak stayed in the transport, putting his feet up on the dash in order to further contemplate his life being over.

“He’s around here somewhere,” Nog said, shading his eyes and turning around a few times, holding his PADD in front of him to try and get a better signal.

Kira walked over to the statue, giving a heavy breath out through her nose as she looked up at it, Miles joining her after a few seconds. The little offerings at the base of the statue had changed since the last time he’d been there, the flowers replaced with a small pile of red Cardassian lemons, the dabo chips now arranged into a single precarious tower, and seven left shoes now placed at irregular intervals around the statue, toes facing Odo.

“Have you seen it before…the statue?”

She gave a short chuckle, expression unreadable, “Julian sent me photos. Doesn’t quite live up to the real thing though does it?”

“No…it definitely doesn’t.”

It was, Miles reflected, probably a bit of an emotional rollercoaster for your ex to be the central figure of an emerging religious movement. That was why he didn’t say anything, just put an arm around Kira’s shoulders as they stood in silence for a moment.

The tinkling of a little bell sounded from behind them. Kilana ran across the square to greet them, puffing a little as she pulled up.

“Colonel Kira! You’re here! You didn’t say…you didn’t tell us…” she looked a little manic, eyes bright, “We are so blessed this day! To have the two of you here.”

Kilana took Kira’s hand in hers and pressed it to her forehead, a sort of bizarre (and reluctant on Kira’s part) blessing.

“Two of you?” Kira asked, “What two of us?”

“Come, you must come…”

Kilana kept a hold of Kira’s hand and started dragging her inside the building closest to the square, the one the Vorta all seemed to live out of. Miles followed, images of horrific cult sacrifice flashing through his mind.

They heard his voice before they saw him, the Vorta having sectioned off a part of the atrium as a worship space with a mishmash of ripped off doors and decorative screens.

“And then I said to Odo…that’s not a vole, that’s my cousin’s wife!”

A murmur of appreciation and wonder came from the assembled Vorta, a few of them taking notes on old PADDs as they sat on the floor. Miles groaned, Kira making a similar noise. They should have bloody known.

“You see…” Kilana’s milky purple eyes shone with religious fervour, she was still grasping Kira’s hand tightly, “Isn’t it wonderful? To be blessed with the presence of not one, but _two_ of Odo’s lovers, in a single day!”

“Two of Odo’s lovers! Wha…” Kira opened and closed her mouth, unable to get words out all of a sudden, shock and anger marring her features.

She turned to face Quark, where the Vorta had set him up on a pile of slightly threadbare cushions at the head of the congregation.

“Quark!” she snapped, stalking up into the little chapel, Miles following on her heels.

Quark took a grape from the bowl offered by one of the Gelnons, tossing it into his mouth, “Mm, I thought I asked for these to be peeled…Colonel Kira, Chief O’Brien, what a coincidence to see you here.”

“Yes, Quark, what an amazing coincidence,” Miles crossed his arms, moving slightly to the side as Gelnon hurried off to peel the grapes.

“What are you doing here?” Kira asked, voice strained.

“I don’t think I like your tone, Colonel. I’m just here on business for the Grand Nagus, seeing that the philanthropic work of Ferenginar is reaching those most in need. That replicator needs fixing too by the way, Chief,” he turned suddenly, “Luaran, how many times, fan side to side, not up and down, you’re barely cooling me at all.”

“Many apologies, Quark ofOdo.”

“Oh…Quark ofOdo, is it?” Miles leaned in closer, voice hissing, “What have you been telling these poor purple simpletons?”

Quark didn’t even have the decency to look ashamed, “How dare you, Chief. How _very_ dare you. I’ve been telling them nothing but the truth about mine and Odo’s…special relationship.”

“Uncle!” Nog came in, Jake fast on his heels, “What are you doing?”

“Oh, now you too? I suppose your Father’s having me tracked again, isn’t he? Just because of that little incident with the Ferengi Council of Trade Unions. You know Brunt has it out for me! The money was just resting in my account.”

“Quark,” Kira snarled, grabbing Quark from the cushions and pulling him up, “You tell them the truth or I swear to the Prophets...”

“How do you know it isn’t the truth?! What Odo and I had was special, until you came along! You…you hussy!”

The assembled Vorta gasped, Gelnon dropping the bowl of peeled grapes on the floor.

One of the Kilana’s rushed forward, inserting herself between Kira and Quark, “Please…please don’t fight. Odo’s love is infinite and all encompassing.”

“Infinite and all encompassing,” the assembled Vorta chanted her words back.

“I’m sure he loved you both equally!”

“You were just friends!” Kira spat at Quark, ignoring her.

“You wouldn’t say that if saw some of the texts he used to send me back in the day. Goo pics and everything! Homewrecker!”

Miles felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to see Yelgrun standing behind him.

“I do apologise, Chief O’Brien, but Mister Quark is right, there is a slight problem with the replicator. Would you be able to look at it?”

Miles turned back, Quark and Kira arguing with accusatory fingers in each other’s faces, Kilana looking increasingly distressed as Nog joined them, Jake snapping a couple of photos from a journalistically safe distance.

He sighed, “Yeah, alright. Show me the problem.”

Miles followed Yelgrun deeper into the building to the kitchen, leaving Nog, Kira and Quark to argue, or create the next Great Schism, whichever came first.

“Ah well, there’s your problem there,” he said, watching as Yelgrun ordered a cup of red leaf tea and the replicator produced a puddle of translucent slime. He picked up a little bit of it and sniffed it before tasting. Mmm, minty.

Miles got down on his knees and pulled off one of the panels, “It’ll be the molecular transference bypass. They often get out of whack on these cheap Ferengi models. You got any tools around here?”

Yelgrun handed him a box of tools, most of them in fairly good nick. The Vorta probably had to do a lot of their own repair work.

“Thanks, these’ll do the trick.”

Yelgrun nodded and then went to sit at the kitchen table, pulling out a thick pair of glasses with no arms from his pocket and perching them on his nose as he sat down. Spread over the table were a collection of slightly dented and scratched PADDs, the closest of which he picked up to start entering data into.

“What’re you working on there?” Miles pressed the button on a resonance sequencer, it flickering to life a little more slowly than he was used to.

“This month’s earnings,” Yelgrun said in that dry and tired voice, “We’re up this month a little. My strategy is working.”

Miles was only half listening, shaking the sequencer as it spluttered, “Oh yeah?”

Yelgrun took that as invitation to continue, “I’m thinking of moving the Keevans entirely out of the casinos, having them work from hotels and bars. The returns are better when they focus on what they’re good at. The Luarans can stay at the tables.”

“What're they good at? Oh…the prostitution, right.”

There Miles was, almost forgetting that little nugget of information. Silly him!

“Keevan was designed to manage particularly difficult Jem-Hadar squadrons. As a rule, his line is surly, unpleasant and argumentative. To be honest, I can barely keep up with demand,” Yelgrun made an annoyed noise as the glasses fell off his nose, he gave them a polish on the edge of his shirt before putting them back on.

“That honestly doesn’t surprise me on this planet,” Miles lay down on the ground, grunting as he shuffled into the body of the replicator (not an easy feat considering it was designed for Ferengi sized engineers) to check the fittings on some of the coolant tubes.

“What about you?” he asked after a moment.

Yelgrun looked up from his work, “What about me?”

“What was your line designed to do?”

“Mostly administrative work,” he leaned his head on his hand, “My predecessors used to run whole star systems in the Gamma Quadrant. Now I’m a…oh, what’s the word again? I’m always forgetting…”

“A pimp?” Miles was struggling with the coolant tube’s fitting, the sonic wrench he was using not quite the right size…

“Yes! That’s the one.”

Miles finally got the fitting on the tube moving…but instantly regretted it, being rewarded with a face full of the clear gunk for his trouble. Well, at least he knew where things were going wrong now…

The replicator proved to be a fairly easy fix after that. Just a few tightened screws, a bit of a tweak to the phase variation nodes and he was done.

“Right…give it another go,” he struggled out from the opening and got up onto his knees, wiping some of the goo off his face with his hand.

Yelgrun got up and asked the replicator for another cup of tea. As it materialised the replicator played a few jangly bars of the chorus of the Internationale.

“Oh good, the song is back,” he said dryly.

“Sorry, if you want me to do something about that I’ll have to pull the whole core matrix out.”

Yelgrun gave a little sigh, “No, it’s alright. We’ve gotten used to it. Thank you Chief.”

Yelgrun led Miles back into the atrium where it was very clear the service (such as it was) had broken up, a few of the Vorta tidying up the chapel. Kira, Quark and Nog were nowhere to be seen but Miles spotted Jake by the door, interviewing one of the Keevans.

“Where’s everyone else?”

“In the transport,” Jake answered, putting his PADD in his back pocket.

“Did they sort things out?”

“God no. They’re not speaking to each other now. Do you still want to get lunch?”

“Well not if they’re going to be weird,” Miles huffed a sigh as they started to leave, stopping in his tracks as Keevan stepped in front of them.

“It’s generally considered polite to make a _donation_ if you attend the service,” he sneered.

“Ugh, fine.”

Jake and Miles both dug around in their pockets, Jake throwing a handful of lat strips into the donation plate. Miles only had notes on him.

“Do you have change for this?” he held one out.

“No,” Keevan snatched it out of his hands, “Praise be to Odo.” He slammed the door closed behind him, leaving Jake and Miles outside.

Miles couldn’t even be bothered banging on the door. _Just let it go, big guy._

Back in the transport, Kira and Quark were sitting at opposite ends of the bench seat, arms and legs crossed away from each other, staring out of the windows. Miles sighed as he squeezed in between them. Corak pulled the car out and rounded the square to get them back on the main road.

Miles looked out the window up at Odo’s stone form as they passed, smiling serenely with arms outstretched (very un-Odo-like, if he was honest with himself).

_This is all your fault, you dog._

~*~*~

Across the square in another building, a very expensive camera clicked repeatedly, shutter flickering as the transport pulled away.

A young Cardassian woman peaked her eyes over the window sill, putting another chip in her mouth, “You think that’s going to be enough?”

The professionally non-descript man she was with shrugged his shoulders, “I think it’s going to have to be. She won’t keep paying our daily rate forever if we don’t give her something.”

She grimaced, “I think it’s pretty tenuous, Dad. I mean…we didn’t actually see anything…”

“That’s the lawyer’s problem, not ours. Come on,” he started unscrewing the lenses from his camera, “I’d offer to buy you lunch if you hadn’t ruined you appetite eating all those chips.”

“I still want lunch! You never buy lunch!” she scrambled after her father, gathering packets of snack food as she went.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are just lucky I didn't make this fic about my original idea: recreating the monophysite vs chalcedonain schism of the Byzantine Empire.


	14. The Ruins of Denen'tat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which old revolutionaries never die

Denen’tat was beautiful. Build near a fresh water oasis which had become a cross road of the old trade routes, it rose out of the dusty orange sands like a great white bird, its feathers dotted with the bright lapis blue roof tiles that were the traditional markers of brothels. Its spires curled gently to the sky, a remnant of a time when Cardassian architecture had been less obsessed with ending everything in a claw.

Being a ruin, largely unoccupied apart from a few people who ran gift shops and offered tours, it had largely escaped the bombardment, a fortunate thing, in Garak’s view, considering it was one of the largest and most complete examples of Hebitian architecture on the Northern Continent.

“Now,” he said, bringing up a brochure he’d found online on his PADD, “Does anyone want to take a tour? There’s one starting in about half an hour that’ll take us through the pleasure quarters. The guides wear traditional costume, I understand it’s quite the experience.”

He turned around in the transport to look at the rest of the group, Julian sitting next to him driving, Prellet and Breton sitting on the bench seat…and of course Miles O’Brien in the back being his usual delightful self and staring out the window, already looking bored and unimpressed. Tch.

Not for the first time, Garak rued that it had been Miles who had been able to RSVP and Keiko who had had to send her apologies. Keiko would have appreciated Denen’tat, he was certain. She would have loved the lotus pools. Popular history said it was at the edge of the largest one (the unimaginatively named Great Lotus Pool) that the Red Queen was seduced by her half-brother, the traitor Yuggoth of Tarak, which was the beginning of the end of her reign.

(Popular history was, as in most cases, completely wrong. There was little evidence that the Red Queen ever left the old capital during the early years of her reign, and although Yuggoth had maintained a large manse in Denen’tat, it was highly unlikely she would have visited him here until well into her second exile.)

“I think the tour sounds interesting…” Julian offered helpfully, “What do you say Miles? Want to meet a courtesan of the Hebitian Empire?”

“Yeah, sure. Sounds fun,” O’Brien replied, in a voice that distinctly implied it did not ‘sound fun.’

Sitting next to him, Garak was the only one who saw the look of frustration that passed over Julian’s features. Although the trip out to Denen’tat had been Garak’s idea (an attempt to get Julian out of the city and away from his frustrations around the wedding, only exacerbated now since Kira and Quark refused to be in the same room), Julian had leapt on it as a chance to ‘do something touristy with Miles.’ He had clearly underestimated how dedicated Chief O’Brien was to being miserable during his stay here.

With Miles coming, Garak had suggested inviting Prellet and Breton Maro. Prellet always made Julian smile, and Breton was good company, which was not something Garak could say about many lawyers. And so they had all piled into Garak and Julian’s transport to take the 2 hour drive out of the city to visit the ruins of Denen’tat.

They parked and Julian walked off with Miles to enquire about tickets for the tour from the information booth. Garak and the Maros wandered through a nearby souvenir shop, Prellet quickly honing in on the lapis-ware glass along one wall.

Garak sidled up to Breton, “I hear congratulations are in order, Counsellor.”

“Are they?” Breton looked at Garak over the top of his glasses, flicking through a few post cards.

“Rumour has it you’re to be our next Attorney General…”

“You know better than to listen to rumours, Counsellor Garak,” Breton picked out a few of the more tasteful postcards, one featuring a portrait of a _xan’per’il_ of the 5th century (one of the six great beauties of the Old Empire, if Garak remembered his art history correctly), “I rather feel we should be focused on winning the election rather than speculating about any future Cabinet appointments.”

Garak made a show of looking over his shoulder in the otherwise empty shop, “Oh, do pardon me, I was just looking for the member of the press you were clearly addressing.”

“Oh har har. It’s easy for you, you don’t have to run for re-election,” Breton moved over to pay for the postcards, “But if you want to talk about rumours, we could talk about the Castellan’s plan to finally appoint an Ambassador to the Federation. I’ve heard that’s a subject of _great_ interest to you.”

Garak smiled, face settling into a well-practiced mask, “New Cardassia has always had a strong policy of interplanetary cooperation. Engaging with the Federation is an inevitable part of our return to the Alpha Quadrant’s political sphere.”

“Now who’s talking to the press?” Breton looked over at Prellet who was comparing two blue glass vases, “Have you talked to Julian about it?”

“Oh yes, he’s…he says he’s very supportive…” the mask fell away for a moment, “I hate the thought of uprooting him again. It seems like we’ve only just settled here and I’m dragging him halfway across the galaxy.”

“Halfway across the galaxy to his home planet, Garak. No doubt he’s looking forward to some authentic human fine cuisine…like tacos.”

“Mmm…perhaps.”

“And it wouldn’t be forever. You still think like an exile, Counsellor. Not every goodbye is final anymore.” Breton paused for a moment, rubbing a finger over one of his forehead ridges, suddenly more serious, “You need to do it, Garak. The Union has been so insular for so long…there _isn’t_ anyone else, no-one I’d trust to represent us properly to the Federation at any rate.”

“Maybe so…” Garak gently spun a stand displaying faux Hebitian charms, “I am nothing if not an obedient servant of the State.”

They were interrupted then by Julian coming in with tickets for the tour. Outside was a middle aged woman chewing _rassat_ gum and wearing an ill-fitting courtesan’s robes, the feathers in her hair a touch threadbare and the jevonite jewellery she wore clearly fake.

Despite the misgivings caused by this poor eye for costuming, Garak found himself mildly impressed by the woman’s knowledge of the history of Denen’tat. She lead them through the pleasure quarters, pointing out the hexagonal shape of brothel windows, giving a succinct history of tea houses, talking about the cycle of capturings, burnings and rebuildings of the city, the layers of history building over each other like silt on a river bank.

Garak let his hand slip inside Julian’s as they walked past the Lesser Lotus Pool, the heavy scent of the white flowers, the largest almost a meter in diameter, rolling over the water. He looked behind him briefly and saw Chief O’Brien cover a yawn just as the guide started talking about Yuggoth of Tarak. It was only his deep love for Julian that prevented him from strangling the other man right then and there in front of the lotuses.

As the group moved on, Prellet hung back, squatting down beside the lotus pool and running his fingers through the cool, clear water. Breton stood beside him, pausing a moment before talking.

“Tell me what’s wrong. You’ve been so quiet all day.”

Prellet sighed and sat down on the edge of the pool, untying his shoes, “Do you remember…during the war, how I’d pack my _zhan_ case with your pamphlets to sneak them past the patrols?”

“Of course I do,” Breton used his toe to nudge a particularly large lotus away from the edge of the pool, “They never paid enough attention to the tea houses, in the beginning at least. I don’t think the Jem’Hadar or the Vorta really understood what they were for.”

Prellet slipped his feet into the water, not caring the end of his pants would get wet, “You always told me back then that if I was captured, if anything ever happened to me, we’d go together. We’d take the same pill, die the same martyr’s deaths.”

“Darling…” Breton’s lips pursed, “Is this about the campaign trail again?”

“What do you think?”

Breton nervous habit of rubbing his forehead ridges returned, “The people of South Western…they’re nowhere near as open minded as the people of Lakat. I should know, I’m from there. Taking you there, parading you in front of them as my husband…”

“Oh, State forgive that my _existence_ hurts New Cardassia in the polls!”

“I’m not worried about the polls,” Breton snapped, “I’m worried they’ll kill you!”

He was silent a moment, “You spoke out of turn to that horrible woman and look what she did to you. That’s South Western. A continent full of small minded bigots just like her who think the only thing that should come out of your mouth is love songs.”

“Kattell Dara isn’t even from South Western! She’s Lakarian blue blood all the way down. You don’t give your people enough credit.”

“And you give them too much!”

Prellet made a disgusted noise, pulling his feet out of the pool and standing, “How do you expect that to change if we can’t show them there are other ways!?”

“At what cost? Darling, these things will change, but they take time. We’re only five years out from one of the darkest periods in our history,” he stepped forward, trying to take Prellet’s hands, “I’m not putting you in danger for the sake of progress. Not now. We aren’t revolutionaries anymore.”

“No…it’s clear we aren’t.” Prellet stepped away, pulling on his shoes. “I’m going to catch up with the tour.”

Breton watched him walk away, “You know what I remember from those days?” He waited until Prellet stopped, “I remember coming to the Blue Door, that first place you played at, and asking you for the same song every night for a month before you even noticed me. You were so beautiful, so talented, and everyone wanted just a moment of your time. I almost swallowed my tongue when you came and sat down next to me.”

Prellet gave an amused snort, not quite a laugh, “Do you really think I was going to let the brightest young lawyer in Lakat slip from between my fingers, especially one that had such interesting _radical_ ideas?”

“And I also remember the terrible apartment you had back then. Having to go through five checkpoints just to see you. Always being hungry,” he looked down, “The day the Jem’Hadar came for Tora and shot her in the street.”

“She always went too big with her stories,” Prellet rubbed his hands over his upper arms. How long had it been since he’d thought of Tora? “Damar and his secret mountain hideout…it was too memorable, too easy to trace back to her.”

He could still remember watching in terrified silence from his window, Breton’s hand clamped down hard over his mouth, Tora’s threadbare pyjamas and bare feet, the song she sung as they stood her up against the wall. She was barely into the first chorus when the plasma blast hit her in the chest, collapsing to the ground, a child’s walking toy with its strings suddenly cut. It was one of the Cardassian collaborator troops who performed the final act, roughly sawing off the long plaits of her hair that marked her trade and throwing them into the street as a warning to others. The Jem’Hadar never bothered with that sort of theatrics.

Breton took Prellet’s hands in his own, “Tora took too many risks.”

“She thought it was worth it.”

“And look what it got her.”

Prellet let Breton wrap his arms around him. Perhaps Tora had had the right idea. Maybe revolutionaries weren’t meant to grow old. Weren’t meant to get married and buy houses and make jam and become Attorney General. It seemed as if their time in the tea houses, arguing over ideas and writing passionate anti-Dominion tracts had been infinitely simpler than the world they’d inherited.

Breton breathed out heavily through his nose, “I’ll talk to the Castellan. Maybe if I campaign more on Northern I can cut South Western entirely from my schedule. Then you can come with me.”

Prellet gave a small smile. It was something. Not what he wanted, but something none the less.

They heard voices growing closer, the tour group coming back around the pool. Prellet could see Garak and Julian and following not far behind, Julian’s rather odd friend Chief O’Brien. He certainly didn’t seem to be enjoying himself on this trip…or ever for that matter.

As they drew closer it was clear something had happened between Julian and O’Brien. Julian was shaking his head, the frustration he’d been hiding all morning finally bubbling over.

“If she says not to touch something, it might be a good idea to not touch it, Miles.”

“I didn’t hear her! I said I was sorry!”

Garak gave a tight lipped smile, “Don’t worry Chief O’Brien, it’s only a 13th century mosaic, I’m sure restoration work on those is very simple.”

There was a song, not one Prellet played often as it called for _khaz_ -flute accompaniment and he was not a confident player of that instrument, about how guests came into your household as harmless as a regnar but transformed into a vole after a week. From the looks of things, Julian and Garak had hit the vole stage with Chief O’Brien.

Julian stole a glance at the tour guide, who was giving them a very dirty look, “I get the feeling we might not be welcome for the rest of the tour. Early lunch?”

The group retired to a dumpling store and Prellet told a few of his favourite humorous stories to try and relieve the tension, getting a few laughs out of Julian (but nothing from O’Brien).

It was while they were trying to decide between going to the museum or just wandering around by themselves when Julian got a call from Vorta Town, where something was very, very wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Breton: Babe, I love you but a war-time suicide pact is not a healthy basis for a long term relationship. 
> 
> Also, ending on another cliff hanger here guys, sorry!


	15. Julian, no!!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which this story is now a legal drama...

“Well well, Doctor Bashir, how lovely to see you again, so soon too.”

“Kattell Dara. I knew you had to be behind this.”

Julian’s eyes narrowed, he and the Cardassian woman stared each other down from opposite sides of Vorta Town’s Square, Odo’s shadow stretching between them. In his mind, Miles heard an Old West style whistle. All the scene needed was a tumble weed bouncing dramatically between the two of them.

Kattell looked particularly pleased with herself, holding a palm sized holoprojector which was displaying a complex set of building plans. Next to her was a heavyset Cardassian man wearing a hard hat, taking notes on a PADD and looking around the square in an appraising way.

His presence was much less concerning though than the van load of police that were currently emptying out the Vorta’s home, throwing furniture, thin mattresses, armfuls of clothing, board games and other toys, a surprising amount of shoe laces (and really any amount of shoe laces beyond two is a surprising amount), out on the street. Miles watched with a sickening feeling as one of the police officers entered the building with a crow bar, presumably to start pulling apart the chapel in the atrium.

“Hello Doctor Bashir! Good to see you again. Interesting developments today,” Yelgrun poked his head out of the back of a police transport, “I’m being arrested.”

Another Yelgrun appeared beside him, “I think you mean _we’re_ being arrested.”

“Arrested? What are they arresting you for?” Julian demanded, walking over to the transport, Miles on his heels.

“Criminal Code Violation section 425.67B, subsection 2.6F,” the police officer leaning against the transport offered helpfully, voice flat, “Running and/or maintaining of an unlicensed brothel.”

“Unlicensed brothel? That’s complete nonsense!”

“That’s what I told them, Doctor,” Yelgrun offered, “Brothel licenses are so hard to obtain.”

“So much paperwork,” the other Yelgran added.

“And the licensing fees! Practically extortion.” The first one again.

“And that doesn’t explain why everyone is out on the street!” and here Julian gestured towards the other Vorta, the group of roughly thirty of them huddled together around the Odo statue, looking on sadly as their things were thrown out in front of them.

Kattell Dara glided over, her flat predator’s eyes gleaming with joy, she was almost salivating, “Such a sad tale, but one these poor creatures have tragically bought on themselves.” She pulled a handkerchief from her handbag, fluttering it dramatically as she dabbed her eyes, “The Land Redistribution Code is very clear however. Squatters attract legal protection if they use the premises for residential purposes only. No running of businesses allowed, especially illegal, _unlicensed_ businesses.”

One of the other police officers handed Julian a PADD with a bright red eviction notice displayed, helpfully providing links to the Land Tribunal’s order and the reasons for the decision.

“This is…this can’t be right!” Julian spluttered, following some of the links on the PADD. “I’m their doctor. I come here at least once a month. I think I’d have noticed if there was a brothel, unlicensed or not, running out of here. Where’s the proof?”

“I’m unimaginably glad you asked, Doctor,” Kattell reached into her bag and handed over a large envelope, “As a concerned citizen with…certain property interests in the neighbourhood, I do take an interest in legal cases affecting the area. I had these printed out specially. There’s just so much more… _gravitas_ to paper documents don’t you agree?”

Miles was tempted to read Kattel’s proof over Julian’s shoulder, it was no doubt juicy stuff, but all of a sudden there came a wailing from the Vorta and his head snapped over to them. The Kilanas were all of sudden making a lot of noise, very distressed, one of them pulling at her hair, another pointing at the entrance to their building where one of the cops was coming out with a large vase, a uniquely expensive looking item considering how threadbare or used all the Vorta’s other possessions were.

“You can’t have that! Give it back!” one of the Keevans snapped at the police officer in question.

“Please…please be careful!” Kilana begged, trying to walk forward, only to be pushed back by one of the other police with his _tch-lak_ , the combination truncheon and cattle prod that was the weapon of choice for the Cardassian police forces.

“You’ve been warned once before, stay where we can see you,” the dull faced officer growled at Kilana as she quickly retreated back to the safety of the others.

“Hey now,” Miles stepped forward, Julian currently distracted by looking through the envelope. This just wasn’t right. “You might be able to throw them out but I didn’t see anything on that eviction notice saying you can push them around.”

“They’re a dangerous element,” Dull-head snapped back.

“Oh, they are, are they? Which part is dangerous, exactly? Their hollow twig bones? Do they shoot lasers out of their nearly-blind eyes?” Miles rolled his own (non-laser shooting) eyes as he walked over to the young police woman holding the big vase, “Hi there. How about I take that one off your hands?”

“Whatever,” she shoved the vase into his hands. Miles heard Kilana shriek when he wobbled with it, almost dropping the whole thing (it was surprisingly heavy, he hadn’t expected it to be full).

“Here we go, no harm done,” Miles unloaded the vase into one of the Gelnon’s arms, who quickly placed it on the ground in front of Kilana (Miles had started referring to her in his mind as Kilana Prime, she seemed to be the leader), she running her hands lovingly over every inch of it before opening the lid and peeking inside.

“It’s alright. They’re alright,” she said, breathing heavily, wide eyes still flicking around like a scared animal, “Thank you Chief O’Brien. Thank you so much.”

“What…who’s in there?”

“The others…the rest of us,” she whispered, “In the dark place we were many…”

She started to mutter, talking about dark places and closed doors, one of the Luarans getting down on her knees and hugging her around the shoulders. Miles backed away. He was starting to suspect that Kilana, or perhaps Kilana Prime specifically, was a few dining splorks short of a banquet (as he had once heard a Romulan Senator say).

There was a slamming noise and the police transport’s door closed, locking the Yelgruns away from the other Vorta. One of the other Kilanas started to cry, the kind of soft pathetic crying you heard from small children who hadn’t slept in a long time.

Julian looked like he was despairing, running a hand over his face, “Come on, at least let them say goodbye.”

The cop standing by the car handed Julian a card, trying to sound sympathetic, “Listen, he should be through booking in a few hours, then they can come and bail him… _them_ …out at this address.”

“How _compassionate_ of you. You have to know this is a complete nonsense. How can you do this?”

The police officer got into the car, “The main thing I know, Federaji, is that she…” he pointed at Kattell, who was back over with her builder, “…is the cousin of the Lakat Commissioner of Police. Now, I suggest you find your friends over there some emergency accommodation before they all end up in lockup for vagrancy.”

“So you admit its blatant corruption and persecution? We won’t stand for this!”

The police transport started to pull away, Yelgrun waving from the back seat as he went past.

“YOU’RE A PART OF THE PROBLEM!!” Julian yelled after the car, “BELIEVE ME, I WILL BE TAKING THIS UP DIRECTLY WITH THE MINISTER!”

Kattell made a sad clucking noise, “It’s such a shame. If only there was somewhere for them to go. A reservation perhaps…”

“You!” Julian rounded on her, pointing an accusatory finger, “You…are truly one of the _worst_ people I’ve ever met.”

“I gather you won’t be at the War Orphan’s Literacy Fund Brunch I’m throwing next week, then?” Kattell gave a smug chuckle, “Such a shame. I was counting on you and your little _xan’per’il_ friend to fill out one of the tables. You bleeding hearts are usually so _generous_ at charity auctions.”

Julian made a disgusted noise, it turning into a low scoffing laugh, “You’re so transparent it’s pathetic. You’re still upset I outbid you on that stupid plate at the Riding Hound Rehabilitation Cocktails and Bridge Night!”

“It was part of a set, _Doctor_. A seven hundred year old set of one of the finest examples of the work of the great pottery master, Jila the Unsleeping. A set _my family_ has been trying to complete for generations! Not that a nasty little upstart like you, and your whoreson of a partner, and your _oh-so-modern_ friends would care about anything like fine art, tradition, honouring the work of your forebears…”

Kattell was so busy delivering her great monologue, she hadn’t noticed most of the remaining police (not to mention her builder) had left, the last officer clicking a holoshield projector to the door of the building and turning it on. It flickered to life, emitting a low grade red force field, the words EVICTION ORDER CURRENTLY IN FORCE running across the door periodically. By the time she’d run out of steam, Julian, Miles and the Vorta were her only witnesses.

“You’re not going to get away with this,” Julian snapped as Kattel’s driver pulled up at the side of the square and opened the door for her, “We can get lawyers too! We’ll fight every step of the way.”

“I look forward to it, Doctor Bashir,” she hissed as the car door closed.

As soon as was gone, Julian’s shoulders slumped and he sat down on the edge of the square, still holding on to the manila envelope full of evidence. He’d barely had a chance to look at it. Miles came and sat down next to him, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“So…I guess me chipping those tiles at Denen’tat wasn’t the worst thing that’s happened today, was it?” Miles tried to lighten the mood.

“Not really the time for jokes, Miles. But since you mention it: yes, you irreparably damaging a priceless antiquity is now the second worst thing that’s happened to me today. Congratulations.”

“Happened to _you_?” One of the Keevans who had been standing nearby, shifting through the pile of belongings, sneered at them, “We’re homeless because you’re fighting with a madwoman over an old plate. But yes, this must be really tough on _you_.”

“I’ll fix this, 326, I promise. I’ll make sure you’re all back in your home as soon as possible.” Julian looked up at him from his place on the ground. Miles was just amazed Julian could apparently tell one Keevan from another.

“Hmph, we’ll see,” Keevan 326 grabbed what he’d been looking for out of the pile, a slightly battered leather backpack. He turned to the nearest Gelnon, “Message me the address if we find a place to crash. I’m off. I’m booked at an orgy at 7.”

“Have fun!” Gelnon waved him goodbye.

“I always do.”

Julian stood up, taking a deep breath. He may not know yet how he was going to get the Vorta back into that building but there was one thing he could do now to make it right.

“Gelnon 26, you can text Keevan an address right now…”

Miles’ eyes went wide, “Julian, no!”

“You’re all coming home with me!”

~*~*~

Across town, Garak was rinsing out tea cups and placing them into the dishwasher, the Maros finishing off some tea cakes at the morning table, when he suddenly dropped one of the cups, a feeling of dread and horror washing over him.

“You’re sure Julian didn’t want any help out there?” Breton asked, swallowing his cake.

“Very sure, darling, he’s a little hesitant to take unfamiliar Cardassians out there. Especially after that incident with Dr Darhem a few year ago,” Prellet answered.

“Ahh yes, I remember you telling me about that. Nasty business,” Breton shook his head, “Honestly, it’s not very politically correct, but I’m just going to say it: that sort of behaviour is exactly why men don’t belong in the sciences.”

Prellet gave an exasperated scoff, “I can’t believe you. You’re such a dinosaur sometimes. Garak, support me here, Julian is a doctor and…Garak? Are you alright? You look a little pale.”

Garak stared out of the kitchen window, his eyes a thousand kilometres away. On the kitchen bench his PADD began to buzz with an incoming call, Julian’s name flashing on the screen.

He didn’t speak for quite some time…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one took so long to get out guys, I've been *finger guns* horribly depressed! The next few chapters should be out a bit sooner. I'm not suuuuper happy with this one but I'm at the stage where I needed to get it out so I could move on to the next part.


	16. Flashback Episode

_Four years previously_

The red beam of the phaser cut through the darkness, the only other light coming from the flashlight held in Nasesk’s hand. Kora hissed out a low ‘yessss’ as the final plaz-lock came away and the doors to the abandoned Dominion facility stuttered open, just wide enough for the two Cardassian women to slip through.

The de-radiators had only been sent over this sector of Lakar in the last week. Kora had been a little hesitant about coming here this soon after de-radiation, but Nasesk had talked her into it. The thought of all the Dominion tech they could salvage and what they’d get for it on the black market was too tempting.

“Think about it baby!” Nasesk had said, holding Kora’s plump face between her hands, “If even _half_ the stuff I think is in there is in there, we won’t just be able to get tickets on a transport to your mum on Amleth Prime, we’ll be able to buy our own _house_ out there!! We’ll finally be off this rock! We just have to be the first in.”

Fortune did favour the bold, especially when it came to treasure hunting.

Kora pulled the doors closed behind her, Nasesk already running a mercurial and greedy eye over everything her flashlight touched on.

“What do you think this place was?” Kora asked, trying to fill the air with something other than the sound of their breathing. Dominion facilities gave her the creeps.

“Something to do with manufacturing according to the Dominion directories.” Nasesk had been given access to a bunch of them by a shady Deltan she met in a bar just before the end of the war. To think, she thought she’d been duped when she bought that data rod off him, especially considering how much she’d paid for it. Now that rod was the centerpiece of her and Kora’s whole operation. “The details on it were pretty vague, I’m hoping weapons, maybe ship tech.”

Kora gave a _hmph_ , “As long as it’s not another useless ketracel-white facility.”

“Ugh, I know right? How many of those could they have needed?”

With no Jem’Hadar left in the sector, ketracel-white was barely worth the effort of dragging it out of the buildings, there just wasn’t any use for it. Well…Kora had discovered that if you boiled it long enough it did become a passable marmalade, but oddly enough there wasn’t much of a market for that, even with the rationing.

They wandered through the building for a while, opening boxes, looking through cupboards, not finding much joy to be honest. Kora shone a flashlight over a desk littered with broken PADDs, the centre console display showing a gaping hole where someone had fired into it with a disruptor pistol (going by the burn patterns). Whoever had been here last had clearly left in a hurry.

“Ah! Fuck!” she snapped, hopping in place for a moment then shining her torch down on the big weird bowl she’d stubbed her foot on.

Hmm…more like a bucket really, she realised, hoisting the offending item up by its handle. It looked expensive, whatever it was, inlaid with all kinds of shining precious metals and with that strange looping Dominion text written around the rim.

“You ok, babe?” Nasesk asked, the arc of her torch flashing over to where she’d heard Kora’s voice.

“Yeah, yeah, just kicked my toe on this,” she held the bucket up higher, giving it a little rattle for effect. Nasesk’s torch beam centred on it, making the metals gleam. “You think we’ll get something for it?”

Nasesk shrugged, “Some art idiot’ll buy it. Bring it along. We can at least use it to carry smaller stuff.”

Kora bought the bucket with her, throwing a couple of the less broken PADDs in for good measure. She could pull them apart for their components at least if this facility turned out to be a bust (again).

“You find anything?” she asked, putting an arm around Nasesk’s waist.

“Only heaps of these…” Nasesk shone her torch over a pile of large transparent bags. Kora walked over and picked the end of one up, finding the see-through plastiform surprisingly flimsy. It crinkled in her hands as she gave it an experimental squeeze, the purple crust that speckled the inside flaking off and fluttering to the floor. She held it up as high as she could, finding the bags longer that she was tall, wider too.

“You know what these remind me of?” she mused, Nasesk already wandering away.

“What babe?”

“You know my cousin Prany? The one with the butcher shop…”

“Oh yeah. Does a mean smoked sausage.”

“Yeah, that one. Well, before the war, when he used to get whole zabu for butchering, they used to come vacuum sealed in bags a bit like this.”

“Really? Maybe this was a meat manufacturing facility then…”

“Why would the Dominion be making meat?” Kora followed the beam of Nasesk’s torch as it bounced further away from her, letting the bag fall from her hands, “The Jem’Hadar didn’t eat meat…they didn’t eat anything.”

“Maybe they gave them some every now and then…as a treat, ya’know?”

“I seriously doubt that.” Kora sighed. Whatever this place was, she was beginning to think it was just another wild regnar hunt, lots of poking around with no reward at the end. She said the same to Nasesk.

“Oh you of little faith. We only just got here! Come on, let’s check out the back. There _has_ to be a reason this place was listed as classified.”

They found the back door to the building and quickly got the it open, wandering out into the concrete yard. Nasesk shone her torch around.

“Oh yeeeah!!” she hopped a little with delight, “Shipping containers! Pay dirt.”

Kora hung back a little as Nasesk ran over to the nearest container. She had a bad feeling about this. There was this smell…like burned sugar but…rotting somehow. She’d smelled it in the facility too, especially near the bags, but it was stronger out here.

“Come on, bring the phaser, there’s only one lock on this one.” Nasesk waved Kora over.

The smell was like a cloud around the container. Kora stopped as she got closer, coughing.

“Guls and glinns, can you smell that? It’s awful.” She almost retched. How could Nasesk stand it?

Nasesk took the phaser from Kora’s hands, “Yeah, it’s pretty bad. Maybe it’s some kind of weird power cell.”

“No power cell _ever_ smelled like that.” Kora pulled a handkerchief out of her pocket, covering her nose and mouth as she continued to hack and retch.

Nasesk made quick work of the single lock with the phaser. There had to be something good in here. There _had_ to be! She had to get Kora off this mess of planet. They couldn’t keep living like this.

Kora took another step back as the container’s door swung open, another wave of rotting, burning sweetness rolling over her. She turned away, eyes watering as Nasesk stepped up and inside it, the light beam of her torch disappearing.

Kora heard a metallic clatter, then the sound of loud retching. She turned back, seeing Nasesk propping herself up with one hand on the container, vomiting into the dust, torch forgotten on the ground.

“Nasesk…love…what was it? What’s in there?”

Nasesk grabbed Kora’s arm as she walked towards the open door, “No! No, don’t! Don’t go in there.” She coughed and spat. “Have you got your communicator?”

“Yeah, it’s right here.”

“Call…oh State…call that nurse, the one you saw from the Federation mission for your leg.”

“The Federation? Why am I calling them? Love, tell me…what’s in there?”

Kora looked over her shoulder at the black void that was the mouth of the shipping container. There…at the bottom, a single point of not-blackness.

An arm.

A pale and unmistakably not Cardassian arm.

“No! Kora!” Nasesk grabbed her head, the tears starting to fall from her dark eyes, “Listen to me. You can’t look. Go back into the building. Call the Federaji nurse.”

In all their years together, Kora had never seen Nasesk cry. Not when her father died, not when they found her little brother’s body after the bombardment. Her throat tightened, she found it hard to speak.

“Alright…alright love, I’ll call them now.” Kora placed her hand over Nasesk’s on her head, squeezing gently. She turned to walk away, eyes purposely avoiding that terrible darkness and the even more terrible not darkness within it.

‘What…what do I tell them we’ve found?”

Nasesk took a shuddering breath, trying to force what she’d seen out of her mind.

“A crime. We found a crime.”

~*~*~

Julian placed another blanket over yet another dead Vorta body, this one a Borath. He rubbed a hand over his face, being careful not to knock the olfactory blockers he was wearing (he was already certain he’d never eat a toffee apple ever again after tonight). Just when he’d thought the worst horrors of this war were behind him, the Universe had a way of throwing them back into his face. It had been six months since Julian had followed Garak back to Cardassia Prime and, in the last month or so at least, the comforting routine that he had settled into working with the Federation humanitarian mission sometimes allowed him an amount of distance from the truth of matters.

He hadn’t seen anything like this since the early days. The days of dust and moaning and collapsed buildings, radiation burns and horribly thin Cardassian children, days where the main enemies he faced were infection, scarred lungs and diarrhea. The truest form of ‘frontier medicine’ there was, really. Sometimes he shook his head thinking back on the naive idiot he’d been just 6 years ago, spouting off lines like that to Kira when he first stepped foot on Deep Space 9. It was probably some funny joke of the Prophets to give Julian now what he’d said he wanted all those years ago.

Dr Aval, Julian’s supervisor, knelt down beside him. She looked tired, her antennae drooping slightly over her feathery white hair. Julian remembered she had been just about to quit for the day when the call came in to attend an ex-Dominion facility in one of the recently de-radiated sectors of Lakar. She must have been going for close to 18 hours straight now…

She gave a short exhale of breath, “I think we’re going to lose that last Eris.”

“You think so?”

“Mmm, we might not if the Cardassians let us use the local medical facilities.” There was a bitterness in her voice.

“We can’t just beam her back to our hospital in Lakat?” he asked.

“The main generator’s still down. No transporters until it’s back up. We can’t power them _and_ the hospital with only the backups.”

“Of course, how could I forget,” Julian pinched the bridge of his nose, “God forbid things work for more than five minutes around here. God forbid the Federation send us something that isn’t 20 years old and falling apart!”

“You’re proselytising to the singers, Doctor Bashir.”

Julian gave an exhausted chuckle, “I think you mean ‘preaching to the choir’ Commander Avar.”

The Andorian’s antennae moved in the way Julian had come to recognise as an apology, “Sorry. Thought I got it right that time. I’m a bit tired.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he stood, “How many do you think will make it back in the transports to Lakat?”

“There’s about thirty I’d feel safe driving. The Keevans are very stable, and those two Yelgruns will pull through, the Luarans as well. I’m more worried about the Kilanas and the Gelnons.”

“How many have we pulled out of the container total?”

“Last count, dead and alive totalled 77.”

“God…” he shook his head, “…what do you think the Changeling in charge here was thinking? Why birth all of them and just…leave them here in the container? Why not at least make them activate their termination implants?”

Avar shrugged, “I don’t think we’ll ever know the full story. Lt Sonak got one of the PADDs the two scavengers found working. The last communication chain on it refers to a clerical error around birthing numbers. If I had to guess, I’d say the Founder in question made a mistake and was trying to cover it up. Maybe they thought the retreat from Cardassia wasn’t permanent and they’d get a chance to come back and fix things.”

“Or that the bombing would take of the problem for them…” Julian added. He cast his eyes over the scene, the sheet covered bodies laying in unmistakably Vulcan-precise rows (thank you, Lt Sonak), the remaining living Vorta separated and being triaged. One of the nurses called out to Doctor Avar, the last Eris was deteriorating fast. She gave Julian a quick squeeze on the shoulder and ran over to try and keep her alive.

Julian was just about to join her when Lt Sonak caught his attention, waving from where he was standing by one of the Keevans. He jogged over, Sonak leaning over and speaking softly.

“This one is awake. He asked to speak to you.”

“Thank you Lieutenant, I’ll take over from here.” Julian knelt down on the ground beside Keevan, who stared up at him with surprisingly present and focused eyes.

“Ah, Doctor, I thought I recognised you.” Keevan’s voice was so soft and weak it was almost impossible to hear, his head rolled as he tried to focus on Julian, “Once again, I find myself in your expert care.”

“I’m flattered you remember.” Julian knew the Vorta shared memories within lines, important ones especially, but he was surprised that any of the memories of the Keevan he’d treated on that planet had been kept and transferred to successive clones.

“Kindness is something rare enough to make it memorable,” the Vorta smacked cracked lips, trying to wet them, “Tell me, does the Federation rule this planet now?”

“No. The Federation only has a presence here to provide humanitarian assistance to the Cardassians.”

“Ah…a shame. If I recall, my treatment at the hands of the Federation was quite nice really…three meals a day, my own cell, reading material…like being on holiday…” he fell into silence, breathing heavily for a moment, “Who was I traded for again? My memory of those last days is…spotty.”

Julian ran a tricorder over Keevan’s chest, “Ishka, she was the lover of the Grand Nagus of Ferenginar.”

“No doubt an important ally for the Federation.”

Julian made an uncertain noise, “Yeah…sure.”

Keevan’s eyes closed, that last burst of conversation having exhausted him. Julian almost thought he’d fallen unconscious when he seemed to start awake again, blinking large eyes, “Doctor, what’s going to happen to us?”

Julian took a moment to answer, choosing his words carefully, “I’m really not sure. I suppose that will depend on…well, a lot of things.” He didn’t really have a good answer. There had been a rogue Jem’Hadar squadron found on one of Prime’s moons about a month after the end of the war, they had all been quickly repatriated. Well, those that didn’t terminate when they were given the news were at least…

“I see…” Keevan digested this information for a moment, “Whatever happens Doctor, can you promise me something?”

“Depends on what it is…”

“Don’t let them send us back. Even if that means dying here,” Keevan met Julian’s eyes, a bony hand appeared from under the silver emergency blanket and gripped his forearm, fingers digging in. “I’d rather die in a Cardassian prison than live a moment longer under the Founders.”

Julian looked down at the hand, then over his shoulder to where Dr Avar was attaching defibrillator pads to Eris’ chest and waiting for them to charge, holding the activator button in her hand ready. Surreptitiously, Julian reached into his pocket, pulling out his Federation issue PADD and bringing up part of the medical field manual he’d never had an opportunity to use before. He was probably going to get in a lot of trouble for this…

“If you were to return to your home planet…or quadrant I suppose…” Julian began to read from the manual, “Would you fear persecution or enslavement due to your species, ethnicity, race, gender, gender presentation, sexuality, telekinetic status, religious beliefs…”

“We’re already slaves, Doctor,” Keevan interrupted, “Fear isn’t really a part of the equation.”

“Just yes or no, Keevan. Would you be in danger of re-enslavement if you returned to the Gamma Quadrant?”

The Vorta blinked once before answering, “Yes.”

“Do you wish to claim asylum, for you and the rest of your group, based on this fear?”

Keevan looked at him for a moment, forehead creasing, “What does that mean?”

“It means you wouldn’t be sent back. You might not end up living here on Prime, but you wouldn’t go back to the Dominion.”

“Then yes. I claim asylum…for all of me at least. However many there are left. I don’t know about the others…”

Julian turned on the recording device on his PADD, holding it closer to Keevan’s face, “Can you repeat that for me?” The manual did say to try and get recordings of asylum claims. Keevan softly repeated his previous words. Julian squeezed his shoulder before standing up, turning to face where Dr Avar was pulling a sheet up over Eris’s face.

He was definitely going to get in trouble for this…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Infomercial voice: Are you tired of shipping your cloned slave race in bulky, hard to handle cloning pods? There has to be a better way! Try vacu-bags! More clones per square footage than all the leading pod competitors! Call today!


End file.
